


For art's sake

by ginnyred



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Artists and Art Critics, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 00:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 32,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21418852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginnyred/pseuds/ginnyred
Summary: Being an art critic, Marti thought he knew what posh artists were like. Not bothering to show up at one's own art opening has got to be a new low, though.
Relationships: Niccolò Fares/Martino Rametta
Comments: 264
Kudos: 218





	1. Anchovies

**Author's Note:**

> A few quick things:
> 
> 1) This is still a WIP, so expect the worst;  
2) The ETL element is very mild because it's them and they're fluffy in every universe. Like, they aren't each other's nemesis or anything;  
3) Thank you to Sarah who helped me with the plot approximately 14 billion years ago (I write that fast) <3

_Oh, for fuck's sake._

Marti looks away, pulling a face.The couple sitting opposite him at the bar can't seem to be able to eat like regular humans. No, apparently they absolutely _have_ to giggle and feed small pieces of sandwich and salad to each other like they're fucking... pigeons, or something.

(Okay, not mouth-to-mouth like actual pigeons. But hand-to-mouth is bad enough, if you ask Marti.

Not that anyone seems to care what Marti thinks.)

He stands up from his chair, dragging it on the floor, making as much noise as possible, and sits down at the other side of the table so he at least doesn't have to see the lovebirds.

“Is everything alright?” the waiter asks, appearing at Marti's table with his burger and frowning slightly at Marti's convoluted manoeuvre.

“Splendid,” Marti replies though gritted teeth.

He's honestly grateful when his phone buzzes in his pocket so he can focus on something that is not everyone else's fulfilling (and cavity-inducing) love life. When he sees it's from work, though, he quickly reconsiders:

**Sana, h. 13.43**

_i need you to review a new art exhibition. the artist's presentation is tonight at 9_

_i already gave them your name_

Marti rolls his eyes.

Practically zero notice, brilliant.

_it's good to know things in advance :/_

_where is it?_

Sana texts him the name of the artist and the address and granted, it already sounds way too posh for his liking. Marti groans in his burger, so loudly half the bar turns to look at him – who knows, maybe he even manages to unglue the lovebirds from each other. He won't turn and check, though, that's for sure.

He ignores everyone and types back:

_fine but if he tries to explain to me the ontological meaning of the square brush i'm out_

_that was one time_

_and you had a lot of fun reviewing that_

Marti did. It was therapeutic and and the guy was so full of himself he deserved every ounce of Marti's bitterness anyway. _The ontological meaning of the square brush_ – he scoffs. He hopes tonight will be less unsufferable, but the location promises nothing good.

His phone buzzes in his hands and he looks down at it. It's still Sana. He notices he keeps getting notifications from the group chat with the guys too, but he opens Sana's text first:

_deadline at 4 tomorrow afternoon :)_

Marti huffs.

He hopes at least there'll be something to drink at the event. Or to eat. Ideally, both. Marti knows he's far more willing to listen to the artists ranting about their work when he's had a few drinks. And he can't do that on an empty stomach, or he'll get tipsy and start being snarky in his notes for no reason.

So really, it's in the artist's interest to feed him well. Marti hopes the guy is smart.

He checks the notifications from the group chat:

**Contrabbandieri di Luchini, h. 13.45**

_Gio: pizza and derby at my place tonight?_

_Elia: hell yeah_

_Luca: i'll bring the beer!_

_Elia: NOT il peccio's_

_Luca: whatever. your loss_

_Gio: @marti? you in?_

Marti groans.

Shit, he'll miss the derby. This job is getting worse by the second.

_sorry guys. have to review another posh guy's art opening tonight_

_Elia: shit. how many *are* there?_

_i know :(_

_Luca: can't you skip it?_

_sana would end me. sorry_

_Gio: oh ok :(_

_Gio: destroy him, marti_

_;)_

*

_Anchovies._

There are anchovies every-fucking-where. In the canapés, in the small omelettes, in those weird squarish pink things Marti couldn't identify but tried anyway because they looked like they might _not_ have anchovies in them (they did).

What's the point of feeding him if all he's fed are fucking _anchovies?_

Marti is at his fourth glass of prosecco and his hands are already itching for his notebook.

He doesn't have anything to write, though, because the dickhead – sorry, the _artist_ – hasn't shown up yet and the works hanging on the white marble walls of the gallery are still covered in heavy blue cloth. It's five minutes to ten and Marti has already checked how the match is going twelve times.

“Have you ever heard of, like, enjoying yourself? It's fun, you should try it sometimes.”

Marti smiles despite himself.

Eva is splendid in her red dress and heels. She leans on his shoulder with her elbow, a glass of wine in her other hand.

He thinks for a moment how they might look next to each other. Marti purposefully chose the oldest, most worn jeans he owned for the occasion. Apart from that, he's wearing sneakers and a blue button-up.

When he got in, he smiled sweetly at the way the guy who took his name glared at his clothes – but it's not like he could have said anything. They need press coverage at these events, they can't afford to send him away.

Marti was counting on it.

“I might have. At yours. Watching the match,” Marti says bitterly. “Instead I'm stuck here with the poshest of the posh.”

“Come on, don't be your usual boring self. The exhibition might be nice.”

“Yeah. Too bad nothing has been _exhibited_ yet. Has the guy arrived at least or...?”

“Don't think so,” Eva offers with a shrug. “Why didn't you bring your guy if this is such a drag?”

_Ouch._ Marti tries not to flinch, he knows Eva means well.

“Yeah. That's done, actually, so.”

“Oh. Oh, sorry.” Her eyes get wide in sympathy. “Gio didn't say anything, so I didn't-” She makes to lift a hand and stroke his cheek, then seems to reconsider. “I'm sorry, Marti.”

Marti shrugs, like this doesn't hurt. Like he didn't spend a week burrowed away in his flat, eating microwaved food and wondering what's wrong with him until Gio decided an intervention couldn't be put off any longer.

“Why are you even _here_, by the way?” Marti goes for the first change of subject he can think of. “Are the anchovies that good?”

Eva smiles and downs what's left of her wine in one go.

“Watch,” she says, smug, handing him her empty glass and striding away, in the direction of two well-dressed thirty-somethings in suits. “Gentlemen,” he hears her say with a charming smile. “Can I interest you in a business proposal?”

Marti scoffs.

The ethical fashion start-up again, he should have expected it. Ele and Eva have been looking for investors for months.

It's fun for a while, watching Eva wrap the posh guys around her finger without them even realising it, but it can only be a momentary distraction. It's ten thirty now, the match is over, and Marti may be a bit drunk, but he doesn't think it's too much to be absolutely outraged that nothing has even happened yet.

He huffs, annoyed, and approaches the guy who took his name when he arrived, who is now hovering near the entrance, looking vaguely uneasy.

“Excuse me, can you tell me when, er...” Marti can't even remember how this guy is called. He checks Sana's text to make sure, his head spinning and making the letters look all blurred together and confusing. “Mr Farès is supposed to arrive?”

He pronounces the name like it's Spanish, with the stress on the 'e'. From the look the guy gives him, it's the wrong call.

“Unfortunately, Mr _Fares_ has been held up,” the guy tells him, stressing the first syllable of the name meaningfully so that there can be no doubt that Marti fucked up the pronounciation. “He apologises profusely for that.”

A perfect non-answer – not that Marti was expecting anything different.

“I was told he was supposed to introduce his work to the press?” Marti insists. “Do a brief tour? He's more than an hour late. Is that still going to happen?”

“As I said, Mr Fares has been held up,” the guy repeats, his tone flat. “However, there are refreshments in the main hall and-”

“Yeah, but I can't write my piece about those, can I?” Marti interrupts dryly. He can feel his temples pound painfully to the sound of background music. “I would like to know if I can expect to see more than just anchovies tonight.”

The guy just blinks.

“Again, if it's not clear, Mr Fares has been held up and is very sorry for-”

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Marti interrupts him angrily, his voice going high-pitched in frustration. “Is that all you're programmed to say? Is he coming or not?!”

The guy looks like he has just eaten a lemon.

“That is, at the present time, still unclear,” he admits finally, through gritted teeth.

And that's just _it_, for Marti.

He didn't get to watch Roma win the derby. He spent his lunch break being grossly reminded that his life sucks. His head feels like it's about to be split in two. And he has now spent one hour and a half in the company of the most obnoxious posh people in Rome. And all of that was for nothing!

He can't get an article out of this. He will get absolutely nothing out of this.

Marti turns on his heels and storms off, fuming. He's so mad he doesn't even remember to say goodbye to Eva.

Fuck _everything._


	2. High horse

Marti gets the idea around one am. He's just dropped an aspirin in his chamomile tea and he's starting to wonder if this is what it feels like to be eighty. He can't sleep. It's the guilt, he thinks – well, _and_ the headache, but mostly the guilt. He knows he overreacted and he knows Sana will be mad at him for not having the article about the exhibition.

He sighs as he stares at the mug on the counter, as if wishing for the tablet to dissolve faster.

He shouldn't have left. Eva texted him that the guy showed up around eleven thirty and did the tour and it was all pretty impressive. He doesn't know if he can trust Eva's definition of “impressive”, but regardless, that's two and a half hours later than scheduled. Marti could have been busy at that time.

(He wasn't, but he _could have been_. That's the point.)

He half-considers asking Eva to tell him what the guy said, to share her impressions of his works, so he can at least write _something_ – but he knows he will never actually do that. He's way too proud. That, and he wouldn't want somebody else's opinions under his own name anyway.

Not that anyone but Giovanni reads his articles regularly enough to know where he stands, but it's the principle of the thing. He always tries to be honest. To write what he thinks and not sugarcoat things just because it's expected of him.

He only ever writes his own impressions, and in this case it's not like he can-

_Oh._

It's a bit of an epiphany, really. A full-on wide-eyed open-mouthed epiphany.

Marti abandons his aspirin to its sad destiny of solitary dissolution and runs to his bedroom to grab his laptop. The words come easy and, frankly, it's a relief. Sana will probably shout at him anyway, but at least he'll have something.

And it's honest. No doubt about that.

It starts like this:

_The things you can do in an hour and a half._

_You could watch the best part of a football match. Have pizza with your friends. Go out for a nice dinner with a significant other. Or even, and here is where it gets really niche, be stood up by a local artist – a certain Niccolò Fares – at his own art opening._

_But let's take this in order, shall we?_

_Imagine showing up at at the poshest art event you can imagine, being served inexplicable amounts of anchovies, and waiting for over an hour for the artist to show up. His work is there, covered in fancy blue cloth, but you can't see any of it yet, because the self-proclaimed artist is supposed to descend from his high horse at 9 and do a tour for the press. Imagine that it's 10.30 and there's still no trace of him._

_Sadly enough, I don't have to imagine..._

*

It gets published on the _actual website_, by some miracle.

Marti rereads the whole thing in the morning, fixes the commas, and hits send without thinking too much about what he's doing or he knows he'll chicken out. No accompanying text, just “art exhibition review (kind of...)” as the subject.

He doesn't even bother pretending he's not refreshing his inbox every few minutes, waiting for Sana to reply, while pretending to do his chores. His phone pings with a new e-mail notification around midday and Marti is so startled he almost drops his phone in the sink.

Sana's reply is blunt and to the point, as usual: “You're lucky this is funny. Don't do this EVER AGAIN.”

Marti sighs in relief, holding on to the kitchen counter for dear life. That's Sana's way of saying he's forgiven.

The article goes online at six pm, and Marti smiles when his phone buzzes some time after eight and he's confronted with what seems like an army of screaming emojis. He laughs and opens the chat with Gio:

**Gio, h. 20.34**

_dude_

_DUDE_

_the article!!!_

_i strangled myself with my arrabbiata and i am now deceased_

_rip. i'll miss you_

_for, like, a few days. maybe even for a week_

_bless your kind heart_

_that posh guy is more dead than me, though_

_like 150% more dead than me_

_the deadest_

_serves him well for the anchovies-only buffet_

_lol. eva says they were alright_

_she's a liar_

*

Fate works in mysterious ways. Or maybe it's just that action-reaction bullshit Newton went on about, Marti wouldn't know. He was always the humanities type.

Point is, Marti finds a new e-mail in his inbox the next morning.

It was sent to the website's e-mail address but Sana forwarded to him. _Dear Mr Rametta_, it begins. It takes Marti a few moments to realise that means _him_, and not, like, his father or something.

Thinking about his father this early in the morning is never a good idea, so Marti pushes the thought aside to focus on the matter at hand. He keeps reading:

_Dear Mr Rametta,_

_I was very amused by your latest art exhibition review. You have a talent for words (and a dislike for anchovies, I take it?). I'm deeply sorry for the other night's inconvenience. I could tell you that patience is a virtue, but I'm not a very patient guy myself, so that would be hypocritical of me._

_I would like to invite you again to my exhibition, if you are interested. I'm not looking for good press. I very much subscribe to Wilde's idea that “the only thing worse that being talked about is not being talked about”. But I digress. My point is that I'm not doing this in the hope you'll write another article about my work. However, I would like you to at least SEE my work, as you didn't get the chance previously. I'm fully prepared to descend from my high horse to meet you and hear what you think about it. Is Wednesday at 12 alright for you?_

_Self-proclaimed artist,_   
_Niccolò Fares_

Marti stares at the words for a long time after reading them and finds himself biting back a smile. He wasn't expecting this.

It's not the first he gets invited back to an exhibition “to reconsider”, but those e-mails usually start with “as you clearly lack the formal training required to appreciate my work” and always end up in the trash folder.

This is different. Possibly because he didn't even get to talk about art this time – but also because the guy may be an entitled asshole, but he clearly is a smart one.

_“I'm fully prepared to descend from my high horse.”_ Marti huffs a laugh.

_I would love to see you try_, he thinks, and starts typing his reply:

_Dear Mr Fares,_

_Thank you for your invitation and the attention you paid to my article. Wednesday at 12 sounds great. I have an appointment at 14, however. Do you think you'll make it?_

_MR_

Marti is at the bar biting into his cornetto and half-heartedly going through work e-mails when he gets a reply. He's half-expecting the guy to tell him to fuck off, so his eyebrows go all the way up when he reads the actual message the guy sent him:

_Punctuality is the thief of time :)_

No “dear Mr Rametta”, no signature, no nothing. Just what feels like... Marti googles it, though he has little doubt, and sure enough, it's another Oscar Wilde quote. Marti scoffs.

Does the guy have an endless supply of those?

His curiosity is peaked, though, so he tries to look for the guy online. He hopes to find a picture somewhere, though he's not sure what he expects. A Victorian dandy?

He's in no luck. He finds a few articles about the opening – his own comes up too to his amusement – but that's it. Marti sighs, puts his phone back into his pocket, and dips the last of his cornetto into the coffee cup.

He'll just have to wait for Wednesday, he supposes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and giving this a chance <3


	3. Do you want to marry me?

Marti thinks about it for approximately one minute and concludes that the best thing to do is wear the same clothes he wore at the exhibition. Just to make a few things clear from the start.

They should be clear already, but just in case they aren't, Marti wears yet another long-sleeved blue button-up and the worst jeans he owns that he still hasn't washed since the exhibition. He hasn't worn them since, so he reckons they're fine.

And anyway, _that's the point._

Marti gets there early, loiters ouside the gallery for a few minutes, and then pushes the heavy door open the second his phone informs him that it's now twelve (just to make another point, while he's at it).

There's no insufferable guy near the entrance staring and taking names, good riddance, just a middle-aged lady mopping the floor, whom Marti greets politely as he walks around the wet tiles, heading into the main hall.

His steps echo strangely against the white marble floor. It couldn't be clearer that the gallery shouldn't be open at this hour, that it was opened especially.

There's something different already, besides the silence. The works on the wall are in full view now and Marti is momentarily taken aback by how vibrant the room feels. It's the colours, mainly reds – and Marti stops in his tracks, surprised.

He was expecting blue for some reason. Maybe because of the cloths he had seen covering the walls the day of the exhibition. Nothing rational about it, just a feeling.

He's dying to walk closer and see better – some of these look like oil paintings, some definitely don't – but there's no time. He feels a hand on his arm and it makes him jump.

“Mr Rametta? Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you.”

Marti turns around. He was so surprised by the colours he didn't even notice there was someone there.

Mellow green eyes, a bright smile. Messy black hair curling in all direction. An elegant black suit and a slightly crooked tie. Marti hates that he feels himself blush.

_Is this what karma feels like?_

_Shit._

“Uh, no worries. I was just... er, looking.” Marti gestures vaguely to his right, to the closest framed painting. “Mr Fares, yeah?”

“Niccolò,” the guy smiles and offers him his hand. Marti shakes it.

“Martino,” he says, and Niccolò's smile gets even wider.

“Of course,” he says in a knowing tone that has Marti try not to blush again. Niccolò laughs, almost to himself. “I mean, it couldn't have been anyone else, the gallery is closed at this hour. But also.” He gives Marti a quick once over. “You look exactly the way you write.”

Marti looks down at the frayed hems of his jeans and then up at Niccolò, an eyebrow raised.

“I'm going to pretend that was compliment.”

He says it almost like a challenge, but Niccolò just laughs again.

“It _was!_ Shall we begin our tour then?” Niccolò takes a couple of steps back and makes a wide gesture to take in the whole gallery. He bites his lip and tries not to smile. “As you can see I'm on time and there are no high horses in sight.”

“Yet,” Marti adds. Mostly because he wants to see what Niccolò will do.

He regrets it immediately when Niccolò flashes him a grin that should probably be illegal. It makes Marti feel like his knees might give out without warning.

“Yet,” Niccolò repeats, amused, with an air of mystery. Then he turns on his heels and starts making his way to the first painting.

Marti has to make the conscious effort to follow him at a slower pace, not to appear too keen.

*

Niccolò's art is good.

It is, there's no denying it, and no point in doing so. It's good.

The oil paintings are mostly abstract pieces – Niccolò talks a bit about how he uses colour and texture and looks delighted when Marti asks about the red.

“Oh, yes. The struggle and the ecstasy,” Niccolò says with a smile, his tone wondering – and normally Marti would raise his eyebrows at stuff like that, because _really._

But Niccolò is so earnest and enthusiastic that Marti can't help but nod like he gets it, like he agrees – maybe he does? This whole room feels alive _because_ of the shades of red – and wishes for Niccolò to say more.

(If – _if!_ – it doesn't involve Niccolò saying “ecstasy” in that dreamy tone again because Marti is not sure he'll survive that.)

There's other stuff too. A trompe-l'œil of the inside of a piano that leaves Marti feeling dizzy, the charcoal portrait of a pretty lady with long hair Niccolò evidently wishes to spend as little time as possible talking about (Marti thinks “... ah”), and some mixed media stuff – mainly painting and collage.

These are commentaries on current events, with newspaper articles blending into images that seem to be more or less linked to what the article is addressing, from what Marti can tell: he's usually pretty meh about these kind of stuff, but even _he_ can't say anything bad about these, because they work.

There's this piece with two shadows kissing against a red background that Niccolò clearly loves. “Do you want to marry me?”, it's called, and it morphs out of a piece of news about civil unions. (Marti thinks “maybe?”)

_The struggle and the ecstasy._ Maybe Marti does get it, after all.

But then Niccolò starts explaining this other piece about... Marti doesn't actually _know_ what it is about, because Niccolò gets very excited and pushes his hair back and away from his face – and it's a fraction of a second, right? But Marti swears he sees a silver ring shine on top of Niccolò's right ear.

It's exactly the same as the one Marti has on his left, and Marti feels like this is slightly to much for him to deal with right now. Because yeah, the art is good, but Marti likes to think he's honest enough to admit when it stops being artistic appreciation and it becomes drooling.

It's very much drooling at this point.

Marti sighs and follows Niccolò to the next painting.

*

“So? What did you think?” Niccolò turns to look at him with shining eyes and what is definitely a smug grin.

Marti narrows his eyes. He doesn't think he's making up the unspoken: “Are you impressed yet?”. It annoys him a little bit. Also because it's a good look on Niccolò, this mildly teasing smirking grin.

But then again what isn't.

“All very interesting,” Marti offers diplomatically. “Would have loved to see it on opening night.”

Niccolò rolls his eyes.

“You're never going to let this go, are you?”

“Why should I? You were the one who arrived two hours and a half late!”

“You left before that, though,” Niccolò argues. “It's not like I kept _you_ waiting for two hours and a half.”

“An hour and a half was enough for me, thank you.”

Niccolò looks down and smiles to himself. It's weird, this smile. Private. Like a secret or an inside joke. Marti catches himself wondering what it means but he shakes his head, pushing the thought aside.

“Would you write your article in the same way, after today?” Niccolò asks, and Marti raises his eyebrows at that.

“I thought you weren't looking for good press.”

“I'm not,” Niccolò looks up earnestly. “I just want to know if you still think that I'm an entitled asshole who can't even be bothered to show up on time at his own event.”

Marti doesn't.

Niccolò is certainly aware that his art is good – and he is proud of it, but that's to be expected. Marti got the impression that Niccolò _cares_ very deeply – it's evident in his enthusiasm, in his work, in the fact that he wrote Marti that e-mail in the first place.

He doesn't strike Marti as someone who “can't be bothered”. But the again Niccolò _was_ more than two hours late to his own exhibition – no explanations given – and, well... what was Marti supposed to think?

“You didn't give an explanation for being late,” Marti says. An invitation, clear as day.

“I didn't.”

Niccolò gives him that weird smile again – and damn it, Marti doesn't know what it _means._

“That guy at the exhibition said you had been 'held up',” he tries again.

“That's... a way of putting it,” Niccolò says, nodding slowly to himself, and okay. Marti is not going to get anything more than this.

He watches as Niccolò fishes out a phone out of his pocket and checks the time. It's an old Nokia, looks a bit like the first phone Marti ever owned back when he was, like, fourteen?

_Rich people_, he thinks to himself, rolling his eyes. _They really are the weirdest._

“I'm afraid I must go. You can stay and... have another look?” Niccolò offers, and he sounds genuinely disappointed that he has to leave. “I mean, if you want. Your appointment wasn't until two, right?”

“What? Oh, right. Yes.” Marti forgot all about his 'appointment'. “Yes, I'll stay for a bit, thank you.”

“Good.” Niccolò smiles, putting his phone away. “Just let Marisol know when you're done so she can close up. I really must go, sorry.”

And, yeah, Marti could theoretically bite his tongue and say nothing. He has the ability to do it, more like. However, he has zero impulse control and a now even stupid crush he is kind of embarrassed by.

“Yeah, wouldn't wanna be late again,” Marti says mock-casually.

Niccolò rolls his eyes, though he looks amused.

“I know! My daily run awaits me.”

“Your daily run?” Marti snorts. He knows nothing about running apart that the people who do it are a traffic hazard, but even he knows you don't go out for a run at _midday._ Also... “Dressed like _that?_”

Niccolò looks down at his perfectly tailored suit and pretends to consider Marti's objection.

“Well, you know how it is,” he says, as he starts walking backwards towards the exit of the main hall. “'You can never be overdressed-'”

“'Or overeducated', yes, I know that one.” Marti rolls his eyes at the Wilde quotation. He should have expected that. “Well... have a good _run_, then.”

_I don't believe a word you say_, is what he means. Well, that or, _please stay you're the most exciting thing that's happened to me this month and I hate that._

One of the two.

Niccolò grins and disappears from view with a quick: “Thank you! Have fun!” and Marti hears the heavy wooden door creak close behind him a few seconds later, plunging the room in an unnatural silence once again.

Marti takes a few steps forward just to hear their strange echo, then looks up. He is taken aback by how close he is standing to the charcoal portrait of the mysterious young lady with the long hair.

Her face is half-hidden by a cascade of messy hair, but she's looking straight ahead. She seems to be smiling at him. Because of him? He recalls that Niccolò was very evasive about this painting and the other one with the same subject, and he can't help but wonder.

“So, what's his deal?” Marti asks the lady on the canvas.

She keeps smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the love <3 Hope I didn't disappoint.


	4. De senectute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not self-plagiarism if I ask myself permission first.

Marti gets a weird unpleasant feeling in his stomach as soon as he spots the football pitch, still deserted, illuminated by floodlights. The harsh cold lights make him shiver in his hoodie and grip the strap of his messenger bag harder, even though it's warm enough for April.

The last time he was here he was with Leo – well, and the boys. But he remembers being thrilled that Leo came too. He cheered for Marti and even played for a bit, even though it couldn't have been clearer he had no idea what he was doing.

But he did it for Marti.

Well, that's what Marti thought at the time anyway. It was only a couple of weeks after that that Leo broke up with him.

It's been cropping up a lot lately – there's been quite a few "first times after" once Marti finally stopped hiding away in his flat – and Marti feels silly because it's not like he thought they had this grand romance going on or anything: they had only been together for a few months. But it was nice, it felt nice. Comfortable.

Marti wonders how he could have got it so wrong. But then again he shouldn't be this surprised. Getting it wrong is kind of his thing: over and over and over again.

He sighs as he pushes the locker room door open but he barely has time to step inside before he's enveloped in a bear hug that leaves him near breathless.

And yeah, stupidly grateful too.

Marti doesn't even try to fight it. He leans against Gio and lets him hold Marti's full weight, suddenly realising how mentally exhausted he really is – the lack of sleep probably doesn't help. He exhales for what feels like the first time in days and hugs Gio right back.

"Man! You're alive!" Gio ruffles his hair and pats his back with an enthusiasm that will probably leave bruises, but Marti doesn't care. "I thought they had kidnapped you or something after that article you wrote."

"What?! An article got you kidnapped?" Luca asks excitedly, patting the spot on the bench next to him.

Gio finally lets go of Marti and he stumbles in that direction, plopping down gracelessly on the bench.

"It's nothing, Lu, no one got kidnapped. It was just a review of a thing," Marti argues weakly. He finds that he doesn't love being reminded of his article, so he tries to change to subject. "Is il Peccio already here or...?"

"He said he was on his way, like, ten minutes ago, so he's probably still on the sofa." Elia rolls his eyes. He stands up from the bench and jumps a couple of times on the spot to warm up. He's already in his football gear. "Is this the same posh thing you ditched the derby for?"

"It is," Gio says and he sounds incredibly proud. "Marti single-handedly ended the bourgeoisie with that review."

Marti is grateful he's changing into his football jersey so the boys can't see his cheek colour. To be fair, he's not in a rush to inform Gio the bourgeoisie looks like Michelangelo's David in an Armani suit.

The thing is... he has no real reason not to mention meeting Niccolò on Wednesday. If not that the boys will want to know about it and Marti barely knows what's going on himself.

Not that there's _anything_ going on. He met a hot artist guy who talked back to him and he got all weak in the knees.

Story of Marti's life.

He's saved from the need to offer any sort of comment by the locker room door opening again and il Peccio making a surprisingly early appearance.

"You were actually on your way!" Luca shouts, gleeful. He turns to look at Elia with a smug grin and makes grabby hands at him. "I knew it! Pay up, man."

Marti greets il Peccio with their usual fist bump but then only half-listens to Luca and Elia bicker and recriminate about bets long past that still haven't been honoured. He leans down to tie his shoelaces and can feel Gio's eyes on the back of his neck like laser beams.

"What?" Marti asks, without looking up. He's learnt by now that playing dumb never works with Gio.

"You're weird," Gio says.

Marti jumps at the chance. He looks up at Gio through his lashes, an exaggerated pout on his face.

"I thought you liked that about me?" Marti offers in a fake pitiful tone, and Gio rolls his eyes.

"Moron." He shoves Marti's head down, making him giggle. "See if I pick you for my team."

*

Gio does pick him for his team, but they lose anyway.

Elia is too good and il Peccio's friends from the Ancient History department prove not to be especially well-versed in such newfangled sport activities as five-a-side football.

"I'm too fucking old for this," Marti complains after the match, collapsing in the passenger seat's of Gio's beat-up Panda.

Like Hell he's walking home tonight. He leans down to massage his calves through his jeans, groaning.

"'Old age has in it an authority that is more valuable than all the pleasures of youth'," Gio offers distractedly, as he looks in the rear-view mirror before merging into traffic. "Or something like that."

"Fuck. Not you too."

"What?"

"Nothing." Marti rolls his eyes. "What was that?"

"Cicero. _De Senectute_."

Marti snorts.

"God, what a dick."

"Yeah. That's the gist of a student's essay I had to grade last week," Gio says and Marti laughs.

"That's something _you_ would have done." Marti punches Gio's shoulder and watches his face open up slowly in a half-proud smile, his eyes still on the road. "What did you give him?"

"Nine." Gio turns to look a Marti with a grin. "I mean, obviously."

Marti grins back and slumps even further into his seat, hugging his bag to his chest. He pushes random buttons on the ancient radio until he finds something vaguely decent and gets comfortable. He's half-thinking of asking Gio to take the long way around so he can enjoy this a little longer, when his phone buzzes in his pocket with a notification.

As soon as Marti unlocks the screen he notices it's an e-mail. Then he notices who the sender is and his heart... well, it doesn't skip a beat exactly, as that is probably medically dangerous, but it starts beating faster for sure.

Also, and Marti will deny it ever happened, his fingers are shaking in anticipation as he taps on Niccolò's e-mail to open it.

The subject, in all caps, is HELP NEEDED and the e-mail itself consists of a single line:

_I have a feeling you argue well?_

Marti reads it to himself, then reads it again.

And again.

He has no idea what it's supposed to mean, but he finds himself grinning at it anyway. He's torn between wanting to claw his eyes out in shame for being so affected by a single line that doesn't even mean anything and wanting to claw his eyes out in excitement because Niccolò reached out to him again.

All of this when really, he should be clawing his eyes out in _despair_ because this is how it starts every single time.

He should know better. He should.

Before he manages to go through with his eye-clawing plan, however, Gio cuts in and interrupts his silent (but apparently not very subtle) freak out session.

"What's that?"

Marti doesn't look up. He knows it's a lost cause, but he still tries to keep his voice as level as possible when he replies.

"Nothing. Work stuff."

Gio says nothing but he doesn't need to. They've known each other long enough that Marti can hear the fond, exasperated "Liar" anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading <3 Vvb.


	5. Cobwebs

Niccolò sends him the address and Marti shows up at 6 pm on the dot on Monday because of course he does.

The place is a bookshop – one of those small independent ones, with pretty second-hand books and kind near-omniscent owners. Marti is familiar enough with the type of place, but he's never been here before. The glass door opens with an overly cheerful chime when Marti pushes it, but Marti has no time to be annoyed.

There is a small crowd already gathered: no more than twenty people, some sitting on the plastic chairs that have been peppered rather haphazardly around the shop, but most still standing, chatting among themselves.

Niccolò is already there ("Ah! So you can be on time when you want to," Marti thinks, rather fondly to be completely honest, which Marti has no interest in being). He's half-leaning against the long table parallel to the far wall, talking to an older lady who might be the owner of the shop, smiling and gesticulating. His smile only gets wider when he turns to look who just arrived and his eyes meet Marti's.

Marti doesn't even want to think of what his face is doing as he watches Niccolò quickly excuse himself from the conversation and walk towards him. He's in a suit again. Burgundy this time.

Marti is not sure how on Earth that doesn't look tacky, especially in a random bookshop at six o' clock in the evening, but it doesn't. He looks like a dream. A really expensive unattainable one.

"Marti! You came!" Niccolò says, gleeful – and, well, yes, technically most of the people in Marti's life call him that, there's nothing especially unusual about it. But still he can't help the butterflies in his stomach throwing a party when he hears the nickname.

"Well, you sounded really desperate," Marti says with a smile, offering Niccolò his hand to shake.

There's a moment of surprise on Niccolò's part, like he wasn't expecting it. It lasts a fraction of a second, then Niccolò's million-watt smile is back and he shakes Marti's hand with enthusiasm. But Marti can't let go of the feeling that he made a terrible faux pas.

Was this wrong? Was Niccolò going to go for... what? A hand on his shoulder? A hug? A kiss on both cheeks? He did call Marti by his nickname not even ten seconds ago.

Marti has no time to linger on this, though, because Niccolò turns the handshake into a chance to grab Marti's wrist and drag him towards the table – "so I can brief you on everything", he says. He says it half in English, like business people do – _così ti brieffo su tutto_ – then turns back to grin at Marti, like this is hilarious.

(It kind of is too: it's so out of character Marti has to roll his eyes as he smiles back.)

Niccolò introduces him to the elderly lady who owns the shop, Lidia, who declares herself "delighted to meet any friends of Niccolò's" – which has Martino wonder if that's what they are now. Friends? It sounds... wrong, somehow. Then Niccolò sits him down at the table to "brief" him.

(Marti tells himself it most definitely does not sound like a euphemism.)

There's already a little paper sign on the table with "RAMETTA M." written on it and below it "journalist, _Il Cavaliere Azzurro_", the name of the online magazine – which makes Marti smile. Also cringe slightly, as he can't help but think back of his article. It feels like a million years have passed since he wrote that when it's barely been two weeks.

Niccolò does not appear to be bothered. His explanation involves a lot of dramatic gesturing and long _excursus_ that lead absolutely nowhere, but Marti pieces it together like this: an acquaintance of Niccolò's has a book coming out, there was a presentation planned to promote it, but they came down with the flu and can't go. As the thing had been promoted by the bookshop for weeks, it seemed rude to cancel, but Niccolò didn't want to do the thing on his own.

"So I thought: who's the most qualified person for the job?" Niccolò waves his hands in Marti's direction like the answer is obvious, and Marti scoffs.

"I don't know: someone who's actually read the book, maybe?"

"That doesn't matter. I haven't read it either."

"YOU HAVEN'T READ IT EITHER?!" Marti repeats, his voice going high-pitched in shock, and Niccolò shushes him, giggling, as he looks around to check if someone has noticed their exchange.

"Listen," he whispers conspiratorially. "We're not even going to talk about the book. We're going to talk about..." Niccolò grabs the copy of the book that is on display on the table and checks. "'The Role of Art in Contemporary Life', take some questions, argue with a couple of people, and then say: 'You know what else talks about art and contemporary life? Mirko's book! Buy it!' Problem solved."

"Honestly, I don't know why you're not in advertising, you're a natural," Marti deadpans, though Niccolò's enthusiasm is contagious and Marti has to bite his lip to stop himself from smiling. "So... I'm here to argue with people, right?"

Niccolò smiles in a way that reminds Marti suspiciously of the Cheshire Cat and leans forward to squeeze Marti's shoulder.

"Don't worry, you're a natural."

*

The presentation goes... well, okay, Marti supposes, considering they end up winging the whole thing.

Niccolò expertly derails questions about specific chapters in the book ("Honestly... it came out two weeks ago and they've already read it?" Niccolò complains later. "Like, no offense to Mirko, but... _why?!_") and Marti ends up almost fighting some old guy in the front row who "did not have a question, exactly, more of a consideration".

A consideration that lasts roughly fifteen minutes and could be best summarised as: "Art died with the Impressionists and hasn't been seen since".

Needless to say, Marti sees red.

He still gets annoyed thinking about it now everyone has either left or is about to leave. Taking their jackets, shaking Marti's and Niccolò's hands, promising to come back and buy the book on a different day never to be seen again.

"Could one of you boys be so kind and help me with the chairs?" Lidia interrupts Marti's musings, smiling apologetically. "They go in the back. You know how it is, with my hip-"

"Sure," Marti replies quickly. Partly because he's not super interested in Lidia's hip issues, but mainly so he won't have time to linger on stupid people who think they know everything and their stupid non-questions.

Marti collects six or seven chairs in a pile and, following Lidia's directions, gets to "the back".

It's a small, rather dingy storage room. Half-opened boxes, cleaning supplies, broken shelves, dust. The kind of place you don't want to spend too much time in unless you're okay with finding cobwebs in your hair for a week.

Or worse.

Marti is just about to take his own advice and get the hell out of there... but he stops abruptly near the door instead.

Niccolò has just peeked in, an inquisitive look on his face. Carrying some more chairs in a pile.

"Are you alright?" he asks gently, as Marti walks backwards, the butterflies in his stomach making a surprise comeback, to make room for him. Niccolò places the chairs down carefully and looks up at Marti. "You looked... upset."

"I'm fine." Marti shrugs. He feels silly for getting so worked up over nothing now, but he also feels like he has to explain. "I just hate it when people say things without really knowing... well, _anything_, you know? Like, you like realistic art? There's tons of artists who do just that and, surprise surprise, they are alive right now."

Niccolò smiles.

It's a beautiful smile, this one. Makes even the storage room look less depressing.

In truth, all of Niccolò smiles are beautiful – but this one is so kind and warm and full of feeling and understanding Marti wishes he could take those two steps that separate them and go for a hug, cobwebs be damned.

Which is, of course, a ridiculous notion. He barely knows the guy.

"You did good," Niccolò says. He takes a small step forward and touches Marti's forearm briefly, in a comforting way. Marti keeps very _very_ still. "You told him something that was clearly news to him and... who knows? Maybe tonight he'll google some names and learn a couple of things."

"Yeah. Or maybe he'll ignore me completely and go to the next book presentation or whatever and ask the same stupid question – which wasn't even a question, by the way!"

"Maybe." Niccolò shrugs. "But maybe at _that_ presentation someone else will mention the same people you mentioned today. And maybe _that's_ when the guy will go 'mmm.... maybe I was a bit rash in my judgement'."

That pulls a smile out of Marti. If nothing else for the persistence with which Niccolò is trying to cheer him up. Or maybe that's just how Niccolò is as a person, he doesn't really know.

"You're really invested in... second chances and stuff," Marti offers, an eyebrow raised in amusement. He means it as a compliment, so he doesn't really get why Niccolò's face falls at that. Marti feels sappy and a bit ridiculous picturing a passing cloud obscuring the sun, but that's all he can think of.

Especially as Niccolò goes back to smiling a moment later, like nothing ever happened.

He seems to be doing that a lot.

"Well, I try," Niccolò says in a casual tone that Marti would be fully convinced by if he hadn't just seen Niccolò's smile disappear abruptly right in the middle of conversation. "What do you want to do now?"

That, instead, works like a wonder to divert Marti's attention.

"We're... we're doing something now?" Marti is not particularly proud of how hopeful he ends up sounding. 

"If you want," Niccolò offers with a grin. He sounds genuinely excited, and that makes Marti a tiny bit hopeful, despite himself. "You like Mexican food?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the Italian. I fell in love with A Concept and couldn't let go.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	6. The artist's touch

"What do you think will happen if I mix together guacamole, chili, and sour cream... and then dip a churro in it?"

It takes a moment for the words to register. Everything feels muffled right now – in the best way. The upbeat background music, the waiters flitting in and out of his line of vision, the pearl white of Niccolò's shirt once he took off his jacket. The mesmerising way his hands move on the table, collecting careless spoonfuls to mix together on his plate.

"Indigestion... most likely," Marti offers, a beat too late. His lips stretch in a slow smile when Niccolò looks up at him, eyebrows raised.

"Only one way to find out," Niccolò says in a mysterious tone. Then, stopping a passing waiter: "Excuse me, can I get some churros? No, I'll keep my plate, it's for a... thing. Yes, thank you." Niccolò looks back at Marti, grinning. "Hope you're ready for the dessert of the century."

"Hope _you're_ ready. I'm not touching any of it." Marti pulls a face. "Also, I doubt that counts as a dessert."

Niccolò smiles, obviously pleased. 

"Aahhh, but you see, who's to say what a dessert is? 'To define is to limit' after all."

Marti snorts.

"Is that Oscar Wilde again?"

"It is!" Niccolò wiggles his head proudly. "You're getting good at this."

"I wouldn't say that." Marti rolls his eyes. "The answer is always Oscar Wilde with you."

"See? You _are_ getting good at this," Niccolò says, his face opening up in a bright smile. It almost looks like his eyes are shining, but it's probably just the lights.

Marti can't explain why he feels compelled to look away.

"Yeah. About that," he says after a pause, as he's playing with the nacho crumbs on the table. "What's up with the Wilde quotes?"

Niccolò shrugs, still smiling.

"I like Oscar Wilde."

"Yeah. No shit, Sherlock."

"No, that's Arthur Conan Doyle," Niccolò corrects him, his tongue between his teeth. Marti is torn between wanting to throw a napkin at him and wanting to kiss his smug grin off his face.

He settles for rolling his eyes, which makes Niccolò giggle.

"No, okay, really," Niccolò says a bit more seriously. "I just... like it, I guess? I read _Dorian Gray_ in high school and thought it was cool. But then I read _The Happy Prince_... and it just clicked, you know? It made so much sense. So I looked up everything I could find and read it all."

That has Marti intrigued. He almost feels as if Niccolò were dangling a key to everything Marti has ever wondered about him right in front of his eyes.

It's probably just him being ridiculous, but he's still curious.

"What's _The Happy Prince?_" Marti asks. He racks his brain for what he knows of Wilde's work, which is not a lot. "Is it a play?"

"A short story. For kids, technically, but for everyone, really. I..." Niccolò leaves the sentence hanging. "You should read it, it's a beautiful story."

"Sad?" Marti asks, and Niccolò smiles strangely. It's like Marti isn't even there for a moment. Niccolò looks down at his hands instead of meeting Marti's eyes.

"It's a bit sad, yeah," he says. His voice gets quieter too. "How did you know?"

Marti doesn't know how to explain that he could just... tell. That everything about Niccolò is screaming that this story he found so much meaning in has a lot of sadness in it.

"Lucky guess," is what Marti settles for in the end – which has him disappointed in his own reply. He's surprisingly thankful to see the waiter return to their table. "Look, your churros," he says, tilting his chin in that direction.

He watches with a smile as Niccolò's head snaps up to attention. Their eyes meet when the waiter lays the plate with the churros between them, in the middle of the table.

They come with a milk-based cream that has Niccolò's eyes sparkling. Marti hates that he knows what he's planning.

"Don't," Marti says, in a warning tone that Niccolò happily ignores.

He takes a spoonful of the cream and adds it to his creation. After some mixing, the concoction becomes a disgusting shade of gray.

"You can really see the artist's touch," Marti comments sarcastically, pushing his beer bottle to the side so he can see better.

Niccolò sticks his tongue out at him.

"The moment of truth," he announces dramatically after he's done mixing. He grabs a churro, still warm, from the plate.

Marti scoffs. He would love to facepalm, but at this point he really wants to see how this ends. (Probably with Mexico suing them. He almost wants to sue Niccolò himself.)

"Go on then," he encourages Niccolò, though he needs no encouragement at all.

Niccolò dips the churro in the gray sauce and, after pausing briefly to take a deep breath, takes a generous bite of the... thing.

Marti grimaces on his behalf, but he can't stop staring, weirdly fascinated. He keeps watching as Niccolò chews slowly, unreadable.

"Well?" Marti prompts, impatient, leaning forward on his elbows.

"It's... fine," Niccolò declares in the end, smacking his lips. He takes another bite and hums appreciatively. "Dare I say good?"

Marti snorts.

"It's not."

"It is!"

"It's impossible."

"Well, the sauce is right here, you know." Niccolò points at his own plate innocently. "You can try for yourself."

Marti scowls. _Kindergarten tricks._

"I know what you're doing."

"Ha! But now I've made you curious and you're going to try it anywaaaay," Niccolò sing-songs, grinning smugly, pushing the plate half a centimetre towards Marti, and... well, fuck him, he's right.

Marti rolls up his sleeves to avoid dipping them in Niccolò's masterpiece by accident and grabs a churro. He doesn't give himself time to think about it. He leans forward to dip it the sauce and takes a bite.

An agonisingly long second passes. Marti barely even gets to chew.

His eyes start to water immediately, his face gets hot, he feels like he might puke. Marti spits everything in his napkin a second later, coughing in disgust.

"What the fuck?!" Marti wheezes, pointing a finger accusingly at Niccolò. "Were you trying to poison me? How did you even manage two bites of this?"

Niccolò just giggles in the face of Marti's suffering, but all in all he's suspiciously gracious about the whole thing. Marti was expecting more glee from him. And more smugness.

It's almost like something... distracted him?

Marti follows Niccolò's gaze with his eyes and notices that Niccolò keeps looking back at Marti's right forearm, now exposed.

_... oh._

"Sorry. You have tattoos," Niccolò says, noticing that Marti is looking at him. His smile gets sheepish, like Marti caught him doing something he shouldn't. "I wasn't expecting tattoos."

The implication that Niccolò thought about him enough to expects things – or not expect them – has Marti's cheeks going pink.

"Oh, yes, that." Marti gestures vaguely in the direction of his right arm. "I have... a few."

"Can I see?" Niccolò asks, his hands already on the table, fingers hovering over Marti's arm. "Do you mind? I love body art."

"Oh. Oh, no. I mean yes." Marti mentally curses his stupid tongue for being useless. He rolls his right sleeve up some more so it sits above his elbow. "I mean, yes, you can look. No, I don't mind."

Niccolò doesn't lose any time.

His fingers feel surprisingly clinical on Marti's arm, like a doctor's checking if the bones have healed well. Except Niccolò doesn't check any bones: he traces the ink from Marti's wrist to his elbow, studying the shapes attentively.

Marti has to suppress a shiver at Niccolò's unwavering focus.

"A melting clock." Niccolò traces the oval of it, then his finger follows the shape as it gets more fluid, less predictable where it gets closer to Marti's wrist. Niccolò smiles. "How highbrow of you."

Marti snorts a laugh, but says nothing.

"And these..." Niccolò turns Marti's arm gently to expose the inside of his wrist. "Are these... what? Hieroglyphs?"

"Yeah." Marti glances at the small precise symbols on his wrist. He's pretty sure he could trace them blindfolded by now. "It's supposed to mean 'joy in the struggle'. Or so my friend tells me."

Niccolò raises an eyebrow.

"Is your friend's source Google or...?"

"He's an Egyptologist," Marti says, thinking back on the endless discussions he had with Il Peccio on the exact semantics of 'struggle'. ("What matters is that it doesn't mean 'war'. And it doesn't, does it? _Does it?!_")

"Ah!" Niccolò smiles. "Then it's all good."

"Hopefully." Marti shrugs, though he's smiling too. "I mean, it _could_ say 'biggest moron this side of the Nile' and I'd be none the wiser."

Niccolò laughs.

Marti likes the way his eyes crinkle, the way his whole body shakes with it – even his curls, bouncing gently in place. He likes it even more because he was the one who made Niccolò do that.

"Well, if that's the case, very few people would be able to tell so you're mostly good." Niccolò giggles to himself. He looks back at Marti's arm and his eyes goes wide, as he seems to notice something new. "The roses here..."

"Carnations. My mum loves them."

"Sorry, carnations." Niccolò's eyes follow the flower trail all the way up to the elbow where they disappear under Marti's rolled up sleeve. "You've got more tattoos?"

Marti clutches his upper arm with his left hand, mostly unconsciously.

"Yeah." He rolls his eyes, though he knows he's blushing and that ruins the effect a little bit. "Thank God people can't see those."

"You don't like them?" Niccolò asks, his voice very quiet.

"No, I mean. I do – in a way. It's just... their artistic merit is dubious at best." Marti glances at Niccolò for a second, but he looks away immediately, suddenly scared by what he thinks he's seeing in there. He forces himself to shrug. "I got them when I was seventeen. And stupid."

"I see."

Marti tenses up as Niccolò fingers leave his wrist and start tracing up his forearm, following the shape of the flowers. There's nothing clinical about them now. Marti can't say what changed, maybe just the intent behind it, but it feels different – this touch.

Intimate. Lingering.

He has to bite his lips not to make a sound.

Niccolò stops at Marti's elbow where the ink disappears under his sleeve.

"And you're not stupid anymore?" His voice is deep, deeper than Marti has ever heard from Niccolò. Marti looks up and Niccolò is staring straight at him – his green eyes warm, his expression open and clearly wanting.

It feels like a turning point of some kind.

"I..." Marti swallows, hesitates. There's no reading this wrong, not now, but it all feels so sudden. So risky. He and Niccolò have only just met, and Marti doesn't think he can take another heartbreak after last time.

Niccolò can tell. There is now a veil of uncertainty clouding his smile, as if mirroring Marti's own.

It's strange, but Marti has to fight back the urge to laugh. At this whole thing, at Niccolò, but mostly at himself: deep down, he knows he'll take the plunge. That's what he always does.

Eyes closed, arms wide open, into the deep blue. That's who Marti _is._

"I'm not seventeen anymore," Marti says in the end, holding Niccolò's gaze meaningfully.

_I know what you're doing._ He told him just a few moments ago, right? _I know what you're doing and I want you to keep doing it._

From the way Niccolò smiles and squeezes his arm – it feels more like a caress than anything – Marti thinks he gets it.

*

Nico insists on paying because he was the one who picked the restaurant and Marti mumbles something about middle-class entitlement, but his heart is not in it.

(Nico bites his lip, amused.)

In another universe, maybe Marti would feel condescended to. In this one, he's too busy rehearsing what he wants to say in his head to worry about giving his bank account a break.

He gets a chance as they're waiting for the cab outside. It started raining while they were having dinner, so they're both standing under the restaurant's awning, their silence made comfortable by the sound of the rain pattering on the concrete.

It's easy enough in the end.

_What's another plunge when you're already swimming?_

"So, are you going to give me your number or do I have to keep e-mailing you forever?"

Nico looks up: Marti can tell he's pleased but not too surprised. He giggles to himself as he fishes out a pen from his jacket pocket and gestures for Marti's hand.

"Oh, come _on._ What is this, the Middle Ages?" Marti rolls his eyes but complies, and Nico writes his number with a flourish on the back of his hand.

"New tattoo," Nico announces proudly. He looks up at the sky and wrinkles his nose in a way that Marti finds adorable. He makes a show of covering Marti's hand with his own to shield it from the rain. "Don't get it wet."

Marti smiles.

Neither of them lets go until the cab arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, for reading. Hope you enjoyed <3


	7. Second chances

**Nico, h. 00.06**

_is this actually your number or am i texting the oscar wilde official fan club or something?_

_oscar wilde official fanclub, how can i help you?_

_idiot. buy a smartphone_

_:P_

*

From the look of it, Tuesday might just be a good day.

Marti has breakfast mumbling along to a pop tune he'd never admit to liking out loud. He spends the entire morning on hold waiting for someone at the university to spend five minutes with him commenting on the Roman ruins construction workers have just unearthed near the new metro station. 

All he gets in the end is an approximate date, a sigh, and a tired: "Is this really news, young man?"

Which, okay, fair. But he's got to write something, doesn't he?

The fact that he forgets all about the phone call the second it's over is a testament to Marti's good mood.

He has a meeting with some library people in the afternoon: some sort of collaboration project that is still very much in the project stage. Sana insists on him coming along "for moral support" (like Sana needs any) and he does.

As expected, his presence proves very much unnecessary – Sana has got this – but he can't bring himself to care.

Actually, the fact he's not even required to open his mouth has its advantages.

Marti half-heartedly takes some notes as the meeting drones on (and on and on) and lets his mind wander beyond the small run-down conference room in the local library.

He thinks of warm green eyes and dark curls and a bright, teasing smile.

He gets goosebumps as his train of thoughts inevitably leads to what happened last night: to Nico and him almost holding hands outside the restaurant, to Nico's fingers tracing up his arm, to the way his voice went all deep when he-

Marti is brought unceremoniously back to the present by the sound of his name.

"-by _Martino here_. Please, expect a follow up e-mail in the next few days. We should have all details sorted by Thursday. Thank you, yes. Yes. It's been a pleasure for us too."

Sana waits, as Marti shakes hands with the library people and tries to look like he wasn't daydreaming about how deep Nico's voice can go just now.

Sana waits for them to be completely alone in the room before raising an eyebrow at him. Marti pretends not to see her and starts to collect his papers. To be fair, he has barely written anything.

"Your job description isn't to just stand there and look pretty," Sana says. There is a hint of amusement behind the stern tone.

Marti rolls his eyes. They make their way out of the conference room and across the foreign literature section together.

"My job description doesn't say that I should come to these meetings either. I do that out of the goodness of my heart."

"Well, then, how _good_ of you to not listen to a word that was uttered today," Sana bites back, but she's smiling. "Things are going okay, I take it?"

Marti looks down, a bit ashamed. He had hoped his low mood lately wasn't as noticeable.

"Better, yeah," he forces himself to admit, talking to the floor.

"Good," Sana just says, never one for heartfelt speeches. Suddenly, her tone gets apprehensive: "Careful, Marti, you're going to- _Ouch!_ Are you hurt?"

Marti groans, rubbing the side of his forehead. He looks up, frowning: the library shelf must be at least a metre wide. But of course he wasn't looking.

"I'm fine," he mutters. "Fucking shelf."

"Yes. How dare it not move as soon as it spotted you?" Sana rolls her eyes. "Are you sure you're okay? Does your head spin? How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Fifteen," Marti deadpans without even looking. Something else has caught his attention.

Right there, at eye-level, next to where Marti just hit his head: FOR LIT U-Z, the label on the shelf says.

Someone might call it a sign.

(Someone who's just headbutted a library shelf, though, so it probably doesn't count.)

Marti doesn't call it anything: he just crouches down and starts scanning the titles.

"What on Earth are you doing now?" Sana asks, her tone exasperated and also mildly worried, like she's not fully convinced Marti has fully recovered after hitting his head.

She doesn't need to worry.

Marti resurfaces seconds later with a battered copy of _The Happy Prince and Other Tales_ in his hands, the cover dangerously close to falling off. He's smiling from ear to ear.

"Research," Marti says cryptically, feeling like that's a very Nico reply. The thought makes him smile even wider. "Let's go."

*

"You have a bump on your head," Eva greets him later that evening as she opens the door to her flat. She squints. "Also a bruise. Have you been fighting people?"

"Always," Marti says, rolling his eyes. "Have you been cooking?"

Eva snorts.

"No. But Gio is making amatriciana."

"Ah! We might survive this evening then."

They both smile and Marti leans down to kiss Eva on the cheek as she moves aside to let him in. Of course that's hardly the end of it: Marti hadn't realised he was friends with the CIA.

"You have a bump on your head," Gio offers later, once they are all huddled around the small kitchen table eating Gio's pasta. He points his fork at Marti for effect.

"Thank you, I didn't know."

"Mmm." Gio chews on a generous forkful of bucatini. "Why are you... happy about it?"

"I'm not happy about it."

"You're not annoyed."

Marti shrugs.

"It was an accident. I hit my head against a shelf at the library."

"Were you busy staring at the phone number on your hand?" Eva cuts in with a knowing smirk.

_Fuck._

Marti's first instinct is to hide his hand, but that'd be pointless now. He doesn't know what kind of ink Nico used but it just... doesn't wash easily.

To be honest, he doesn't even mind all that much. 

"Oh, that," Marti says, trying to make it look like he's only throwing a distracted glance at his hand. He ruins the effect by smiling too much at the only slightly faded digits. 

"Spill," Gio just says, rolling his eyes, but he sounds fond. And honestly, Marti doesn't know why he shouldn't at this point. 

Well, apart from the obvious. 

"Do you... remember my article?" Marti says tentatively. He tries not to cringe at the thought. "About the art exhibition where the guy was super late?" 

"Yes?" Gio says, confused, at the same time as Eva goes "No!", her eyes wide and disbelieving. 

"... yeah, that's him," Marti admits, forcing himself to shrug. He risks a glance at Gio, who is frowning at him, his fork suspended mid-air. Marti can almost see his brain gears turning. 

_Three, two, one..._

"I thought you hated this guy's guts?" Gio says, obviously confused, and Marti sighs. 

_Where to begin?_

"Let me guess: Marti did, but then he found out he was, like, really hot," Eva replies for him, amused. 

"Okay, that's not even remotely what-" Marti stops himself mid-sentence, realisation dawning on him unexpectedly: Eva has seen Nico before. 

That night at the gallery, when Marti left. 

_Why didn't you tell me?_, Marti almost wants to ask. Which is absurd, because what would Eva even say? "Careful, Marti. The guy is super charming"? She didn't even know Marti was going to meet with him. 

"That's not it," Marti says decisively. "I mean, not that he isn't, but- Basically, I thought he was a pretentious dick – and he isn't. Well, maybe he's a bit pretentious, but his art is really good and he's like-" He sighs, interrupting himself again. "Listen, I don't know. And it's not like anything happened anyway." 

Gio raises both eyebrows at that. 

"It looks like something happened," he says, tilting his chin in the direction of Marti's hand. 

"Yeah, I mean. He read the article and invited me back to the gallery-" 

"Was he mad?" Eva asks. 

"Mostly just... amused? It's not like anyone reads my stuff, so he probably didn't take it very seriously." Marti shrugs. "We met again yesterday, had dinner together and then..." Marti waves his right hand in the air, as if demonstrating. 

"Right. So have you written the article yet?" 

Marti frowns at Gio's question. 

"Article? About the metro ruins?" 

Eva and Gio exchange a glance, like they think Marti is being dumb on purpose. 

"The article about the actual exhibition! Like, about this guy's work!" Eva explains animatedly. "I mean, you're dating now-"

"We're not! I told you just now we've only just-" 

"Well, you are... _something_ now," Eva interrupts him. "And yet your official stance on him is that he's an asshole!"

"But he knows I don't think that anymore... I think. I mean, surely he _must_ know I..." Marti trails off. He looks from Eva to Gio, but both are looking at him with something resembling pity. He feels his cheeks get hot. "You think I should...?"

"Yeah," Gio says, his tone gentle, like he's afraid Marti might break if he's too direct with him. Marti has the strangest feeling of déjà vu, like he's seventeen again and in love for the very first time. "Listen, would you like it if he had written those things about you and they just... stayed up – unchallenged – while you... well, you say you're not dating-"

"We're not," Marti replies, almost on autopilot now. "But he said he wasn't looking for good press! When he invited me back to the gallery, he said he didn't care about good press, he only wanted to know-" Marti grimaces as he remembers the one thing Nico seemed to really care about.

_Oh._

"Yes?" Eva encourages him, her tone hopeful. 

"He only wanted to know if I still thought he was an entitled asshole who couldn't be bothered to show up at his own event," Marti admits in an incoherent mumble.

A somewhat tense silence follows.

If it weren't for the amatriciana plate in front of him, Marti would faceplant against the kitchen table, the very picture of defeat. He's an expert by now.

Given the circumstances, Marti thinks he reacts pretty reasonably: he groans and buries his face in his hands, his elbows firmly placed at both sides of his plate.

"Come on, don't be dramatic," Eva offers kindly, ruffling his hair. "You can fix this easily enough."

"Yeah, but after you eat your pasta." Gio leans forward and hits the side of Marti's plate with his fork. "It's not good if it gets cold."

Marti sighs deeply, but he does as he's told. Picks up his fork again and starts poking unenthusiastically at Gio's amatriciana.

_Not even at seventeen..._

* 

**Nico, h. 23.03**

__

_i want to write another article about your exhibition_

_i'm shaking already_

_ha. ha. ha. would an interview type thing work for you? i was thinking friday at 5-ish if that's alright_

_5-ISH? you like living on the edge_

_second chances. i hear they're a good thing_

_:)_

_BUT if you show up at 5.59 i'm gonna end you_

_5.58 it is!_

_don't you dare_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Merry Christmas <3


	8. Fourth floor, flat B

He dreams of Nico on Tuesday night.

Marti opens the door and Nico is standing right there, wearing a suit made entirely of gold. With the unshakeable certainty of dreams, Marti knows it's not just coloured fabric: Nico is wearing gold from head to toe, like King Midas.

The idea of questioning it doesn't even cross Marti's mind and he moves aside to let him in.

He dreams of him a second time on Wednesday.

This time, when Marti opens the door, Nico is waiting outside in full Victorian attire. Top hat, vest, walking stick – the whole deal.

He smiles at Marti, an eyebrow raised, like they're both in on the joke, which they aren't. Marti grins back and lets him in.

On Thursday, Marti dreams of Nico once again.

He's wearing white this time, Marti registers distractedly, his attention drawn elsewhere. Nico's face, his chest and limbs are splattered messily with red paint: Marti feels almost frozen as he watches the paint drip slowly from Nico's trousers onto his doormat.

When he looks up again Nico's eyes are right there, almost close enough to count his stupidly long lashes, their noses almost touching.

Marti is done with almost.

He bridges the gap and kisses him, hot and desperate, and Nico lets himself in. Walks Marti backwards and goes for his neck, grabbing at his waist, smearing every inch of him crimson red.

Marti wakes up in a sweat.

Nico's obvious absence feels unpleasantly physical. Like moments after take-off, when your stomach drops and it's like a part of you is suddenly missing.

Marti lies there, looking up at the ceiling, taking deep breaths and trying to get his breathing under control. He squints at the alarm clock next to the bed.

03:22, it says, in bright red digits that almost feel mocking all of a sudden.

It's Friday already.

Marti hides his face into his pillow and muffles a groan.

*

The book is lying on the living room table where Marti left it on Tuesday night. He hasn't had time to open it yet.

He should probably leave it there. It's not like he put it on the table on purpose, so that Nico would see it. Except _Nico_ might think he did.

Marti would, in his shoes. Or... he imagines he would? Nico's shoes are a very difficult fit.

Marti worries his lower lip with his thumb, staring at the copy of _The Happy Prince and Other Tales_ he picked up at the library.

Would Nico be flattered? Would he think Marti... what? Dumb, embarrassing?

_Desperate?_

Marti doesn't want Nico to think that of him. But then again, would Nico think that of him? He very much seems like the no judgement type.

The thought makes Marti laugh to himself, a bit hysterically.

They've met twice. How the fuck would Marti know the type of person Nico supposedly is?

The intercom buzzing pulls Marti out of his misery and into a different kind of misery. Startled, he checks the time on his phone:

16.49, _shit._

With hindsight, it's painfully obvious that questioning Nico's punctuality was a mistake.

But there is no time to waste.

Marti grabs the book from the table and shoves it frantically under a pile of... stuff on his work desk at the other end of the room. Other books, art magazines, half-finished half-printed old articles, the notes from the library meeting, at least three different pizza delivery leaflets. The more the better.

When he gets to the intercom, Marti is almost panting.

"Y-yes?"

"Uh, hi, I'm Niccolò?" His voice sounds puzzled and vaguely amused. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. I was just... Everything's fine." Marti grimaces as he tries to regain composure and sound like a normal human. He buzzes Nico in. "Fourth floor, flat B. Lift's near the door, on the right."

Marti doesn't wait for Nico's reply, putting the receiver down. He takes a deep, calming breath as he waits behind the door for Nico to come up.

It's fine.

The book is hidden, Marti has interviewed tons of people before, Nico will be wearing sensible clothes when Marti opens the door. Marti _knows_ him – well, kind of.

It's fine. Maybe.

The lift door chimes open outside. Marti hears steps and a moment later the doorbell rings. He counts down from five before opening the door.

"Hey."

"Hi!"

He's wearing a suit. A normal gray suit.

Marti loves and hates that he feels himself relax. Like there was any real chance Nico would wear anything else. And, well... everything that came with that.

"You're on time." Marti smiles. He leans against the door and opens it wider. "Early even."

"I know! Are you impressed?" Nico asks with a grin. He's rocking on the balls of his feet, hands clasped behind his back.

"I'm getting used to it." Marti takes in Nico's surprised smile with some pride. He gestures towards the living room. "Shall we?"

*

"Here you go." Marti lays Nico's coffee cup down on the living room table and sits next to him on the sofa with his own. "I didn't add any sugar, as per your request, even though black coffee is the worst."

"You're the sugar type?" Nico grins as he pretends to size Marti up. "Yeah, you look like it."

Marti doesn't know what to say to that – is it a compliment? Is Nico flirting? What does it _mean?_ – so he just takes a sip of coffee.

"So, how does it work?" Nico looks around curiously. "Are you gonna point a light at me and ask for my alibi?"

"Not at first," Marti says with a smile. "Do you mind if I record this, though?" He points to his phone lying on the table. "So I don't have to take notes. Also for, like, exact quotes and stuff."

"Sure. Do your worst."

It's a joke.

Marti knows it's a joke. Still, he can't help but feel like he has to make this clear.

"Listen, when I said I wanted to write another article, I meant properly, like." Marti glances up tentatively: Nico is looking down at his cup with half a smile, like he thinks he knows what's coming. Marti takes a deep breath. "I want to talk about your art and give people an idea of what your exhibition is actually like. Not like last time. I'm kinda sorry about last time, actually. I was... rude."

Nico stirs his coffee slowly, still smiling to himself. 'Secretly pleased' would be the expression, if Nico weren't failing exponentially in keeping it a secret.

"A bit, yeah. Also _hilarious._" Nico chuckles. "And you did have a bit of a point there, I suppose." He shrugs. "It's fine."

"Well, I mean... I don't know about having a point, but. Thanks for agreeing to this."

"Thanks for suggesting it."

There is a pause, during which Marti doesn't dare to look up, so he unlocks his phone for something to do and opens the voice recording app.

He presses play.

"Interview with Niccolò Fares. April 24th," he says. It comes out a lot more formal than intended. "Okay, so: about your exhibition. What would be your answer if someone were to say- No, wait, how old are you?"

That makes Nico laugh and almost spit out his coffee.

"_What?!_"

Marti can feel himself blush to the tip of his ears.

"I need it for the opening?" he explains a bit awkwardly. "Like, 'Niccolò Fares, 75, is a Rome-based artist blah blah blah...'"

"Oh. Oh, right." Nico can't seem to stop smiling. "I'm thirty-two. Though I do feel seventy-five, at times."

"Okay. So, what would be your answer-"

"How old are_ you?_" Nico interrupts him, his tongue between his teeth.

"Ni, come _on._" Marti snorts a laugh, the nickname slipping from his lips and surprising even him. Nico's eyes go wide for a moment too. "I'm trying to do this properly."

"Fine, fine. Sorry."

"I'll be thirty in June," Marti concedes, rolling his eyes. "Now will you _please_ tell me what would be your answer if someone were to point out that your exhibition doesn't seem to revolve around a central theme?"

They discuss this for some time, as their coffee grows cold and they barely even notice.

Nico's reply seems to boil down to "so what?", which Marti kind of loves him for. Nico doesn't phrase it like that, and Marti would never quote him as saying that, but that's the point.

Nico didn't make those pieces with the exhibition in mind and he feels that forcing a theme onto the works simply because of an exhibition is somewhat disingenuous.

Marti can only agree.

"But like, my opinion is hardly the one that counts," Nico concludes with a shrug.

"The viewer, you mean?"

"Yeah. I didn't intend this exhibition to have a central theme, but if the viewer finds one, then they're welcome to it. I'd like to know what it is, actually. Maybe that's the key."

Marti raises an eyebrow at that.

"The key to what?"

"Meaning? Peace? Happiness? They're the same thing, really." Nico considers his words for a moment and grimaces. "Maybe don't write that in the article?"

"I won't," Marti agrees easily. He doesn't push, though he's dying to know more. Maybe if this wasn't Nico he would pry, a little bit at least, but he doesn't want to make him uncomfortable. "Let's talk about the red," he says instead, and that brings Nico's smile back.

"Yeah, let's."

"It's not what one would call a cohesive theme, but it does feature prominently in a number of your works," Marti says. "'The struggle and the ecstasy', you said last time." Marti tries to keep his voice level, though he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it ever since he first heard Nico say it. "Wanna elaborate on that?"

"Oh, I think you get it." Nico grins and looks down at Marti's wrist. "'Joy in the struggle', was it? Your hipster tattoo?"

_Okay, so this is what we're doing._

Marti's exasperated eyeroll is probably very unconvincing, but he feels like he should try anyway.

"I doubt the readers care about my tattoos. Which are not hipster, by the way."

"Marti." Nico smiles, a bit condescendingly. "You've got hieroglyphs on your arm."

"Well, you're wearing an evening suit at five in the afternoon!"

"Do your readers care about how I dress?"

"Nono, you don't get to do this." Marti raises a warning finger in the air, though it only makes Nico smile wider. "You're the one who's been derailing this interview since the beginning."

"Derailing, huh?"

Nico moves slowly. He raises a hand to Marti's finger and lowers it gently, until both of their hands are resting on the sofa, Nico's on top of Marti's, their fingers clasped. Marti can feel his skin prickle where Nico is touching him. He swallows nervously.

"I wouldn't mind derailing it a bit more," Nico says, looking up from their hands to Marti's eyes. "With your permission, obviously."

"Permission... to derail the interview?" Marti asks. He almost whispers, like his voice is not working properly all of a sudden.

Nico scoots closer and leans in slowly, smiling. They're so close. Marti can feel Nico's hair tickling his forehead.

"Yeah." Nico's voice is so deep it gives him goosebumps. Marti closes his eyes.

"Granted."

It's the gentlest thing.

Nico bumps their noses together and presses his lips, half-open, against Marti's. Marti can feel Nico smile into it, and that makes him smile too.

Their teeth clash for a second.

Then Nico cradles Marti's face with both hands and the kiss gets deeper, but still gentle. Gentler, even. Marti leans back against the cushions, as Nico uses his thumbs to draw little circles from Marti's cheekbones to his ears.

Marti doesn't recall ever being touched like this. Like he's a work of art in a museum. Fragile, precious, but way too interesting to keep proper distance.

His lifts his hands tentatively to Nico's chest. He can feel how warm his skin is even through the fabric of his shirt. Nico sighs into the kiss as Marti's hands travel up slowly and tickle the skin on his neck before resting on his shoulders.

He's still wearing his jacket.

The thought makes Marti giggle and he breaks the kiss. When he opens his eyes, he's surprised by a breathtaking close-up of Nico's amused, inquisitive face. Of his bright smile.

Marti means to tell him about the jacket, but he gets distracted by the way the sunlight reflects golden in Nico's eyes.

So he just kisses him again.

Pulling him closer, letting Nico's hands wander into his hair, to the back of his neck. Nico scratches the spot softly, seemingly on a whim, and then just keeps doing it when he feels Marti shiver at the touch.

He keeps doing it – slower, softer – even as Marti pulls away to catch his breath.

"Okay," is the first thing Marti manages after a few seconds of heavy breathing. It makes Nico laugh.

"Just okay?"

Marti pretends to slap him but then leaves his hand there, cradling Nico's cheek. He smiles when Nico preens into it like a cat.

"Are you always like this?" Marti asks, curiously. "Or were you, like, trying really hard to make an impression?"

Nico smiles.

"Like this how?"

"... I don't know, gentle?" Marti offers, because he has no better word for it right now.

'Devoted' feels a bit much at the moment.

"Oh." Nico's eyes shine with mischief. "You like rough? I can do rough."

Nico smashes their lips together and kisses him again, open-mouthed and purposefully sloppy. Marti doesn't even have time to try and keep up because Nico abandons his mouth soon enough to trail messy wet kisses down Marti's neck. He pretends to bite his collarbone, his hands pulling at Marti's hair, making it stick up in all directions.

Marti almost can't breathe from how much he's laughing.

"You're so weird," he wheezes in the end, wiping away the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Good?" Nico looks up at him from where he's laid his head on Marti's shoulder, a peculiar intensity in his gaze.

It almost sounds too genuine a question for the circumstances, but Marti just smiles and kisses the top of Nico's head.

"Good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [insert "oh ecco finalmente ce l'abbiamo fatta" Marti gif here]
> 
> The sugar/no sugar exchange was inspired by Fxckxxp's [no straight lines or sharp corners](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21075272).
> 
> Thank you for reading and for the 100 kudos over Christmas, it was a lovely present. Happy New Year <3


	9. Chekhov's gun

It feels a bit like a dream.

Nico's arms hugging him from behind, holding him at the waist, as they sway – admittedly not particularly gracefully – on the spot.

He only knows it isn't a dream because in his dreams he isn't usually trying to order pizza when he's getting his neck kissed.

("Where do you wanna order from?" Nico asked earlier, picking up the pizza delivery leaflets from Marti's desk.

_The_ desk.

Marti's eyes went wide, he grabbed one at random, and pulled Nico in for a kiss.) 

But the point is: Marti isn't exactly great at multi-tasking.

"One pizza with ham – but like if you can a-add it later? Like, after it's been in the oven? T-thank you, yes."

Marti makes to wiggle free of Nico's hold to try and focus on the call, but he can't bring himself to put any effort into it. They arm-wrestle briefly, giggling, and only end up closer, as they both barrell against the kitchen counter, Marti holding on to it for dear life.

Nico doesn't seem fazed in the slightest: he just keeps trailing kisses down Marti's neck. He muffles a laugh at Marti's sharp intake of breath when Nico's tongue pokes out and teases his skin. At the other end of the receiver they must have noticed too. Marti coughs belatedly to try and cover it up.

"And also another one with tuna, red p-pepper and – what was it?"

Nico detaches briefly from Marti's neck to fill him in.

"Salami and a fried egg."

"Salami and a fried egg," Marti repeats, rolling his eyes. "What? No, all of t-those on one pizza. Yeah, I'm sure – I mean, he is. Y-yes. Martino Rametta? You should have the address already. Y-yeah, that's it. Thank you, goodbye."

He doesn't wait for them to reply and closes the call. He turns around so he's facing Nico, an eyebrow raised.

"I can never call this pizzeria again. Hope you're proud of yourself," he says. He goes for stern with a side of annoyed.

If Nico's grin is any indication, he misses by a long shot. Nico pecks Marti's lips once.

"Moderately proud, yes."

"Great. You're opening the door when the guy gets here then. I can't show my face ever again. Also, you're paying."

Nico laughs.

"Whatever happened to 'I can pay for this too you know'?"

"Your atrocious twenty-thousand-ingredients pizza happened." Marti bites back a smile. "Also you owe me for not being able to keep your hands to yourself for five seconds while I'm on the phone."

"I _owe_ you," Nico repeats, stressing the word meaningfully. He wiggles his eyebrows too but that just looks ridiculous. "I like the sound of that."

Marti kisses him.

He could try and think of a witty comeback, but they would end up here anyway, so he just cuts it short for convenience.

It's nice.

Every time they do this now Marti finds out something new about Nico. Like how Nico likes it when Marti strokes his ear and plays with his piercing. The way he guides Marti's hands back so they're tangled in his hair. The soft, almost surprised, sounds he makes whenever Marti tilts his head to kiss him deeper.

Right now, as they kiss standing up, Nico crowding him against the kitchen counter, Marti notices for the first time he's slightly taller than Nico.

Which is so strange.

Nico has such a presence Marti feels like he should be at least four metres tall. Like the David.

The thought makes him smile. The thought of telling Nico makes him laugh into the kiss.

Nico pulls back, puzzled but amused.

"What?"

"Nothing." Marti grins, impertinent. "You're shorter than I thought."

Nico rolls his eyes and kisses him again.

*

Nico opens the door for the pizza delivery guy, and he pays, and he even slices up both pizzas when they realise they forgot to ask the pizzeria if they could do it.

Amused by Nico's look of horror when he makes to eat the first slice and almost stains his disgustingly pricey shirt with egg and tomato sauce, Marti takes pity on him and offers him a change of clothes.

This feels even more like a dream.

Nico in Marti's blue tracksuit bottoms and faded Nirvana t-shirt, eating his dreadful pizza on the floor, correcting the contestants of a quiz show on tv.

"No, it's Chekhov's gun." Nico shakes his head, pointing a pizza slice at the tv screen. "'Dramatic principle upholding narrative cohesion'. That's got to be Chekhov's gun, right?"

Marti could get used to this.

It wouldn't take much at all, Marti thinks, once they've finished their pizzas and Nico ends up sprawled on the sofa, his head in Marti's lap, headbutting his hand gently until Marti gives in and starts stroking his hair.

Marti considers keeping his mouth shut for a second, but he's never been great at that.

"I like you like this."

Nico tries very ineffectively to hide a smile.

"Quiet?"

"Relaxed."

"'Nothing is so aggravating as calmness'," Nico offers with a smile, his eyes closed.

Marti scoffs and pulls on Nico's hair. Not hard, but hard enough that Nico feels it's not meant as a cuddle.

"Stop deflecting."

Nico cracks one eye open.

"What?"

"You always do this." Marti rolls his eyes. He's only a bit annoyed, mainly just curious. "I swear you've never answered a single question the whole time I've known you. And don't say I interviewed you just now because that's different and you know it!"

Nico opens both eyes and blinks once, slowly.

"Well, but you didn't ask any questions, did you? You just said-"

"Okay, well, I'm gonna ask a question now. Are you going to answer?"

"Depends on the question," Nico says, matter-of-factly.

Marti groans and makes to take back his hand from Nico's hair, but Nico keeps it there, pressing down.

"Okayokayokay." He looks up with a tentative smile, which Marti can't help but return. "I'm going to answer, I promise."

"Right." Marti keeps stroking Nico's hair, considering. There is so much he wants to ask he doesn't know where to start. "This is your first exhibition, right?"

"Right."

"And... you're selling your stuff?"

"Some of it, yeah. A few paintings are already sold."

"Okay." Marti twists one of Nico's curls around his finger. "So what did you do before?"

Nico sighs deeply at that, like he's steeling himself.

He looks away, focuses on the tv screen, but Marti can tell he's not really seeing it. It takes him so long to reply Marti is almost surprised when he finally does.

"I was a bookseller."

Marti frowns.

"_What?_"

"It's true. I sold books." Nico glances at Marti quickly before looking away again. "You know Lidia's shop? Where we did the book presentation? I used to work there."

Marti... doesn't know what he was expecting, really, but not this.

Nico. A bookseller? Seems... odd.

Not that Marti thinks Nico is lying, but it's all so unexpected it takes Marti a few moments to realise Nico is probably telling only a small part of the story, and even that seems hard for him.

Maybe it was to soon to push him on this?

"Oh," Marti says in the end, racking his brain for something that won't sound prying, disbelieving, or like he wants to talk about money. "And... did you like it? Working there?"

"Yeah." Nico nods slowly. "If I managed this exhibition at all, it's because of Lidia and that job. I, well." Nico laughs. It makes Marti wince with how self-deprecating it sounds. "I was a bit of a mess, before."

Marti doesn't think. He just reaches down and touches Nico's face. Strokes his cheek slowly, soothingly, with his index finger.

He watches Nico close his eyes and give in to the touch.

"I'm sorry," Marti says. "I didn't mean to- We don't have to talk about this if you don't want to."

"It's fine, I-" Nico shakes his head, his eyes still closed. "I'm just bad at putting things into perspective. It's not even that special."

"What does that mean..." Marti asks softly. "Not special?"

"That it wasn't. It was just a break-up," Nico says. Words seems to come easier to him with his eyes closed. "I... I took it really badly, I even quit my job. And, like, she... she was really worried about me – and that made it even worse."

"She... you mean your ex-girlfriend?" Marti asks.

The image of a beautiful girl with long messy hair, like she's just woken up, comes to Marti's mind, unbidden.

He remembers her intense stare, her secretive smile Nico captured so well in that stunning charcoal portrait Marti saw at the gallery.

Nico's reticence to talk about the portrait makes a lot more sense now.

"Yes, Maddalena," Nico says, finally putting a name to the face. He opens his eyes. "She worried about me, and I could only think about how guilty I was feeling."

"Guilty about the break-up?"

"Well, not exactly, but..." Marti can see Nico is mincing his words again but doesn't comment on it. He won't push him any further. "It was the whole situation that was... well, fucked up. I felt like I had no purpose anymore. But then I got that job and the bookshop, and- I mean, it took a while, but-"

"You're better now," Marti says for him. He smiles down at Nico until he sees him smile back, strangely shy, and clasps their hands together.

"Better, yes."

He leans in for a kiss.

"Sorry again for prying," Marti says, pulling away but keeping close.

"You didn't." Nico lifts both hands to Marti's neck and just holds him there. Like he's afraid Marti might disappear if he doesn't. "Sorry for... you know. That. I didn't mean to scare you."

Marti grins, trying to lighten the mood.

"I don't scare easily."

"You don't?" Nico smiles.

"Nuh-uh."

They kiss again.

Marti goes with his instinct, as Nico seems to want reassurance. He lies down slowly next to him on the sofa and turns so he can throw an arm around Nico, their bodies pressed together, Marti's chest to Nico's back.

He thinks he did right, as he feels Nico almost melt against him, his hand grabbing Marti's arm and holding on.

"It's fine, you know?" Marti says into Nico's neck. "We can... Like. I'm here, is what I'm saying. We can take this slow or... at whatever speed you want, really."

"What is the spectrum?" Nico asks. Marti can't see his face but he can tell he's smiling.

"Spectrum?"

"Yeah, for the speed. Slug to cheetah?"

Marti snorts a laugh.

"Yeah, okay. Slug to cheetah."

"I've always liked giraffes," Nico says, his tone contemplating. "They aren't the fastest, but they have long legs and when they take a step, like, they _really_ take it."

Marti squeezes Nico around the waist, smiling to himself.

"Giraffe it is then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> <3


	10. No octopuses allowed

**Nico, h. 15.02**

_sushi sunday?_

_i promised i'd meet my friends to watch the match :(_

_what time is the match?_

_20.45_

_ok. i'll bring sushi to the match then :)_

_are you sure?_

_why? do your friends turn into ogres after dark or something?_

_<3_

_you're not into football, are you?_

_but i'm into you ;)_

*

**Contrabbandieri di Luchini, h. 15.18**

_@gio i'm coming with nico tonight_

_Elia: who?_

_Gio: WHAT?!_

_oh yeah. i forgot to say_

_we're together now_

_Gio: you forgot to say???_

_Elia: you're together with who??????_

_*whom_

_nico. the artist from that exhibition i told you guys about_

_Elia: oh fuck off, you and your grammar_

_Elia: also wasn't this guy your arch nemesis?_

_it's a long story..._

_he's bringing sushi though_

_Luca: SUSHI YAY!!!_

_Gio: glad we agree on the priorities here..._

*

**Gio, h. 15.19**

_<3 (even though you suck for not telling me sooner)_

_it happened this friday!_

_TWO WHOLE DAYS!!!_

_sorry_

_<3_

_this sushi better be good ;)_

*

Nico dressed down.

A bit.

It may be that he made a concession for the informality of the situation – or perhaps, for all his ogre talk, it may be that he's a bit nervous after all.

He looks great in jeans, though. Also in his trademark shirt-and-jacket combo Marti is pretty sure he sleeps in.

He hasn't had the chance to check. Yet.

"It'll be fine," Marti tells Nico in the lift, after pressing the third floor button. Nico looks up and they exchange a smile. "They're nice, just stupid."

"So that's who you take it from," Nico says, grinning smugly, like they don't both know that Marti set up the joke himself.

"Asshole." Marti pulls a face and they kiss once, a delicate smile-meets-smile, just as the lift door opens.

"Oh God." Marti would recognise Elia's mocking tone anywhere. "If you're gonna be like that all night I'm leaving."

Marti rolls his eyes as he and Nico pull apart and step out of the lift.

The door to Gio's flat is open, Gio himself on the threshold, arms awkwardly crossed in front of his chest, looking like he really doesn't agree with the three-person welcome party.

Marti grabs Nico's hand.

"Okay, fine. Me and Nico get the sofa then," he says nonchalantly. He figures being obnoxious the best way to break the ice.

He's a natural too.

"Not a chance," Elia scoffs, turning to Gio, who smiles at Marti and Nico.

"Yeah, sofa's taken, I'm afraid."

"But I've got sushi!" Nico lifts his shopping bag up to demonstrate, and Marti swears Luca's eyes get heart-shaped just at seeing how full the bag looks.

"Tentacles?" he asks, his tone hopeful.

Nico grins.

"Obviously."

Luca offers his hand for Nico to shake.

"Hi. I'm Luca, your new best friend," he announces gleefully. "You can have my spot on the sofa."

"He doesn't have one. He was banned from the sofa two years ago," Elia stage-whispers, and Nico laughs.

"How come?"

"We refer to it as the Great Nutella Incident," Gio summarises effectively, rolling his eyes. "The signs are still there, unfortunately."

"They're not!" Luca argues, but it's mostly out of habit now.

"They so are. Nico, come and look."

Gio leads the way inside, the boys trailing after him, and Nico looks to Marti, smiling big. Marti can only smile back, fond and amused, one eyebrow raised.

_See? I told you,_ Marti had no doubt it would work.

They step inside Gio's flat holding hands.

*

The sushi is not enough to win them the sofa. And Nico lying shamelessly, swearing he doesn't see any chocolate stains on the (mostly) immaculate white sofa doesn't help much either.

In the end, they have to squeeze into Gio's armchair as Luca takes the pouf.

Marti doesn't mind.

There are worse ways to spend an evening than watching football eating uramakis half-sitting in Nico's lap.

Marti throws his legs across Nico's and scoots down to be more comfortable. He sighs contentedly, trying not to focus too much on the way Nico's left hand is resting on his mid-thigh.

He wonders if Eva would deem their sitting arrangement a danger to the upholstery.

Which reminds him.

"Eva?"

"At Ele's," Gio replies from the sofa, his mouth full. "There have been developments."

Marti snorts.

"Did they find someone to finance the start-up?"

"No, but apparently Ele is now dating some horribly spoiled trust-fund kid whose father owns a couple of countries at least." Gio's eyes dart to Nico quickly as he remembers who he's talking to. His cheeks colour slightly. "No offence, of course."

Nico recovers relatively smoothly for someone who almost swallowed a whole uramaki in shock.

"None... taken?"

Elia coughs in his fist, but it sounds a lot like a giggle, and Marti rolls his eyes.

"Okay, but that's good?" he says. "If he's got money to waste he can finance them himself."

"Theoretically, yes. Except Ele doesn't want his money."

"What?!" Marti's voice goes high-pitched in surprise, and Elia shakes his head wordlessly.

Even Luca frowns, despite being thoroughly involved with his sushi.

"Why?"

"It's the principle of the thing or whatever." Gio shrugs. "Eva went to hers to try and change her mind."

"Is Eva your... partner?" Nico asks Gio.

Marti wonders if he says that just to steer the conversation away from "spoiled rich asshole" territory, or if he genuinely wants to know.

In any case, it works, because Gio smiles like he can hardly believe it himself.

"Girlfriend, yes," he says in a dreamy tone. "She knows you, actually – well, your work. She was at your opening. She was very impressed."

Nico grins, giving Marti a sly look.

"Thank you. Good thing someone was."

Marti sticks his tongue out at him, but Nico only grins wider and leans in for a kiss. Marti snorts into it because _really_, but lifts his hands anyway to hold Nico's face.

They drag it out a bit for show, Nico moving the sushi to the nearby table so he can hold Marti's waist. It's the most uncomfortable position and to make it worse Marti is sure he's staining Nico's face with the soy sauce on his fingers, but neither makes a move to pull away.

"Hey hey hey! No octopuses allowed on match night!" Elia cuts in. Marti can _hear_ he's rolling his eyes. "Nico, you're new, so you get a pass, but Marti, man, I'm disappointed in you."

Luca looks up from his uramaki at that, his eyebrows raised almost comically high.

"You do know you're eating octopus right now, yeah?" Luca asks, and Elia groans.

"That's not what I meant!"

"Okay, but I'm just saying, if you only say 'octopuses' it's a bit vague, you know? One might think-"

"Well, good thing you _never_ think then-"

"Sshhhhhhh, it's starting." Gio gestures for everyone to calm down and points to the tv, where the players are making their way onto the pitch. He looks to Nico then, as if surprised by a sudden thought. "You support Roma, Nico, right?"

Nico bites his lower lip, trying not to smile.

"... sure."

*

It takes the boys approximately five minutes to realise Nico knows next to nothing about football.

It becomes kind of obvious, Marti has to admit, when VAR disallows Roma's first goal and Nico doesn't even think of jumping to his feet and shout insults at the tv.

Marti shakes his head fondly.

_Amateur._

As soon as things calm down a bit, both on the pitch and in Gio's living room, Elia turns to Nico, both eyebrows raised.

"And how long have you been a Roma supporter, exactly?"

"Since today?" Nico smiles apologetically. "But I've never supported any other teams."

"Never ever?" Luca looks shocked, like he's trying to come to terms with the near-nightmarish prospect of a life without football.

Nico smiles.

"Never."

Luca considers this for a moment, then claps his hands suddenly, as if he's just made an important decision.

"We need to teach you everything then!"

"It's not exactly rocket science," Marti tries to stall, pretty sure he knows what's coming. "I'm sure Nico can figure it out on his-"

"So, there are two teams, right?" Luca gestures excitedly, ignoring Marti completely. "Both with eleven players. And there's a ball, and they – the players, I mean – kick it around trying to get it inside the goals, which are those white things at the end of-"

"Oh God, I'm sorry," Marti whispers in Nico's ear. He lays his head on Nico's shoulder in defeat, but Nico just giggles and pats the top of his head comfortingly.

"Okay, okay," Nico tries to explain to Luca. "When I said I never supported any football team, I didn't mean I don't-"

"And see that green thing on the ground?" Elia interrupts in an exaggerated serious tone. "You've probably never heard of it, but it's called _grass!_"

"And the guy in yellow running around and never catching the ball? He's actually not part of either team," Gio supplies helpfully in the same tone. "We call him the referee."

Luca sneers at both of them.

"At least I was trying to being helpful instead of just sitting there being an asshole like you two."

"Yeah, and I'm sure you helped a ton," Elia deadpans. "Didn't he, Nico?"

"He sure did," Nico offers with a smile. He elbows Marti gently to get his attention. "Hey, who's Leonardo?"

"Da Vinci?" Marti says distractedly, without looking away from the tv.

Nico's shoulder is too comfortable to even think of moving. One wouldn't think it: he looks all sharp and bony, but he actually feels really nice to lean on.

"You mean in the match?" Luca asks, confused. "There probably _is_ a Leonardo in there, but I'm not too good with first names."

Nico just chuckles and tilts his chin toward the table next to the armchair, where Marti left his phone on silent.

"Then some football player is calling you right from the pitch. You don't wanna miss it, I'm sure."

That finally gets Marti full attention.

He sits up quickly, leaning forward, now fully on Nico's lap, to look at his phone screen.

_Incoming call: LEONARDO_, it says.

Marti looks up, searching for Gio's eyes. He's faced with the same blank, mildly worried expression he's sure the others can see on his face too.

"Is everything alright?" Nico asks, frowning.

Marti just nods distractedly, without looking at him. He swallows nervously.

He really doesn't want to take this, but ignoring it and being left with the doubt of what Leo might have wanted from him is surely worse.

He stands up, grabs his phone and lifts it to his ear, starting to walk briskly towards the kitchen.

"Hello?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Beethoven's fifth starts playing*
> 
> I swear all they do in this fic is eat, lol.
> 
> Thank you for reading and all the lovely feedback <3 And sorry about the cliffhanger 😬😅


	11. Looking at the stars

"Hello?"

It comes out a bit strangled. Marti grimaces, as he leans against the kitchen table for support.

"Marti? Is it a bad time?"

He expects it, but Leo's voice still manages to twist his stomach in a knot. It's like being transported back in time, to right after the break-up. When the mere thought of picking up the phone was unbeareable.

Marti closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.

Things are different now. He's doing so much better now.

"No but I'm at Gio's, so I don't have a lot of time," he says. It sounds deceivingly calm, considering. "What's up?"

"Oh, okay. I can send you an e-mail later, if that's better for you?"

Marti tries not to, but ends up snorting a bitter laugh anyway.

"An _e-mail,_" he repeats, the sarcasm sharp and obvious in his tone.

"Listen, Marti. This is not..." A deep sigh. "I know you're not exactly thrilled about me calling. I get it. But I'm not trying to get back together, or anything like that-"

"Good," Marti says. _Because I'm seeing someone else now_, he decides against saying.

There's no point in making this more difficult than it needs to be. It would only drag it out longer and it would ultimately just hurt more.

"What did you want to say?" Marti asks.

"You remember... that video project we worked on? For the museum?"

"Yeah."

It's a bit of a silly question, Marti knows Leo realises it too. They _met_ because of those videos, which they wrote together, and then Marti voiced, directed by Leo.

They were supposed to be a fun, easy introduction to the major works of art of the museum. From what Marti could gather, they use them for groups of schoolchildren visiting.

"I've been offered a similar job. By another museum," Leo continues, his voice tentative. "They... they asked if we were still working together, and I mean. It's a good opportunity, so before asking anyone else..."

"Oh. Oh, I see," Marti says, taken aback. This is... really nice, actually? He doesn't know what to say and frankly feels a bit guilty for assuming the worst. "I... well. I don't know, it's- Thank you for the offer, I..." He clears his voice and tries to clear his head too. "How much time do I have to decide?"

"Not much, I'm afraid," Leo says apologetically. "Also because we're supposed to collaborate with some of the experts from the museum on the writing, so we'd have to, like, go there ourselves."

"Go there ourselves," Marti repeats, frowning. "Where is this museum again?"

"In Milan." There is a long pause, tense, expecting, only broken by Leo sighing heavily. Marti can almost see him trying not to facepalm. "... should probably have opened with that."

"_Probably,_" Marti supplies ironically. He shakes his head, almost wants to laugh. "Yeah, I'm not moving to Milan for this. It took three months last time to write everything. And then the filming. Also we're in talks with the library for some conferences, so. Thank you, but no."

"I understand," Leo says. "I mean, I sort of figured you wouldn't want to move. But it seemed like a dick move to just... not say anything, you know?"

"I know." Marti bites his lower lip but it's not enough to keep the words from spilling out. "Wouldn't want to seem like a dick, right?"

"_Marti._"

"I'm joking, I'm joking."

Well... kind of.

But Marti knows that, however much the break-up may have messed him up, that part was _his_ doing, not Leo's. Blaming him for Marti's insecurities was just... easier.

"It was nice hearing from you," Marti says. He hopes it comes across as sincere because it is. "And thank you for thinking of me for this."

"You're welcome." Marti can tell Leo is smiling. "Thank you for picking up and not throwing the phone into the Tiber."

"Maybe I'm about to."

Leo laughs.

"You're too cheap for wasting a perfectly good phone like that."

"Shut up, it's just that I care about the environment!"

"Sure." A giggle, then a pause. Marti can almost see Leo's fond smile as his voice grows quieter. "Goodbye, Marti."

"Bye, Leo."

*

When Marti walks back into the living room, he has to make an effort not to burst out laughing. They're all looking at him, necks craned, expectant, the match forgotten. As if they are anticipating Marti to make the announcement of the century.

"So?" Gio asks, impatient, making a gesture for him to speak.

Marti shrugs and lets himself fall back onto the armchair. He can tell from the way Nico is looking at him that the boys filled him in as to who Leonardo is.

He doesn't mind, it's not like it's a state secret. It's just they've hardly had time to talk about it.

Or anything, really.

Marti links their fingers together in a reassuring gesture.

"I just got offered a job," he announces with a grin.

"By your ex?" Elia asks, both eyebrows raised, and okay, yeah, it doesn't make a ton of sense when one puts it like that.

"Kinda? It's about this project we worked on together a while back. Now he's been asked to do something similar and he wanted to know if I'm on board." Marti shrugs. "Which is nice, but I'm not."

"Because it's with him?" Nico asks. He starts tracing small circles on the back of Marti's hand with his thumb, probably meant to be soothing.

Marti smiles, feeling strangely moved by the gesture.

"Because it's in Milan," he says.

Nico looks up suddenly, as if surprised, and Marti nods once in confirmation.

"Yeah, I know. He's weird like that."

"And he wanted you to move to Milan for... how long?" Gio asks, frowning.

"Not sure. Four months? Give or take. And it's not like he _wanted me to._ He just asked-"

"Four months in Milan? That's the whole summer!" Luca shakes in head in disbelief. "No one deserves to spend the whole summer in fucking Milan."

The boys laugh, with both Gio and Elia raising their beer bottles in the air, as if toasting to Luca's words.

"Amen, man."

"What day is it? April 26th? Gio, write it down. This is the first time in the history of forever I actually agree with Luchino!"

The boys laugh again, but Marti doesn't miss that Nico doesn't so much as smile at that.

"Hey," Marti says quietly so the boys won't hear. He glances over but they're busy with their banter anyway. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes." Nico looks up at him, and Marti is surpised by how worried he looks. Lips tight, a deep frown line between his eyebrows. "Marti, are you sure about this? Because if it's a good opportunity, maybe you should take some more time to consider it, you're so young."

Marti laughs, surprised.

"What does that mean, 'you're so young'? We're practically the same age!" Marti makes to smooth Nico's frown away with his fingers. "And don't worry. I have considered it. I just... don't feel like this opportunity is worth moving, that's all."

"Why?" Nico asks.

"Why is it not worth moving?" Marti repeats, and Nico nods slowly. "Well, because it's four months and then that's it. Done. Also." Marti's hands trail down the sides of Nico's face, resting on his shoulders. "Everything I care about is in Rome. My friends, my mum. My job. _You._" Marti grins and leans forward for a quick kiss. "I'm not leaving you. I mean, we've established that I'm stupid, but I'm not that stupid, you know?"

Nico opens his mouth, as if meaning to say something, but nothing comes out. He closes it again, swallowing dry.

Marti frowns. He's about to ask if Nico is feeling alright, but he doesn't get the time.

"Hey, you two!" A cushion hits the back of the armchair among general giggles. "No octopuses, I said! And stop whispering!"

Marti rolls his eyes and lifts his middle finger at Elia.

"See? I have _such great friends_." Marti looks back to Nico, pulling a face, and Nico offers him a small smile in return. "Why would I ever want to leave them?"

*

It's not too late when the match ends and they say goodbye to Gio and the boys, but the neighbourhood is very quiet anyway.

Marti and Nico walk side by side on the pavement, in silence, their steps making rhythmic clacking sounds against the concrete. It's not awkward, just quiet, as they're both lost in thought.

They're almost there, Marti's house is just around the corner. Which is why Marti is not expecting it when Nico takes his hand and pulls him to one side.

Inside a small alcove, against the closed door of someone's building. Nico crowds close and takes Marti's face in his hands, pushing Marti's hair back.

His movements are controlled and precise, like a dance. So much so no part of this feels like a spur-of-the-moment decision.

Marti looks up and Nico's eyes are huge and dark and liquid. They take Marti's breath away.

"What?" Marti says, voice breaking despite his best intentions.

Nico kisses him slow.

It's weird. In Nico's arms Marti feels like he's in a bubble. Like time has stopped when Nico grabbed his hand and the night will last forever. Like no one will ever step foot in this road again.

Like they are the only two humans left on Earth.

Nico caresses Marti's forearm, tracing the shape of Dalí's melting clock on Marti's skin, and Marti knows Nico gets it. That he's feeling the same way.

Marti kisses back, grabbing Nico's collar and pulling him close, closer, probably ruining his shirt but it doesn't matter. No one will ever have to see it.

They only pull apart when they're out of breath. Nico is breathing heavy, but he stays close, tilting Marti's chin up gently so he's looking above his shoulder, above the rooftops even.

To the sky.

"You know that Wilde quote about looking at the stars?" Nico says, his mouth against Marti's shoulder.

Even if he did before, Marti feels like he knows nothing now apart from this very moment. He shakes his head.

"'We are all in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars', it says." Marti can hear Nico swallow and his fingers shake as they are holding Marti's chin. He has his eyes closed. "Do you see the stars?" Nico asks.

Between the clouds and the city lights, Marti can barely see anything.

"Not many," he says honestly. He's not sure what he's really saying either.

"But do you see them?"

"Yeah."

"Good." Nico almost deflates at that, letting his head collapse on Marti's shoulder. Surrendering fully, letting Marti hold him in his arms. Unmoving, like they're frozen in time. "Good."

Marti can't say how long they stay like that.

It feels like forever, or maybe just a few seconds. All that matters is the warmth of Nico's body Marti can feel even through the fabric of his clothes. His regular breaths tickling the skin of Marti's neck.

There is no one around.

Marti closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I'm very curious and kind of terrified now.
> 
> Thank you as usual for reading and following along <3


	12. RSVP

**Nico, h. 07.38**

_good morning <3_

*

_"The struggle and the ecstasy', you said last time. Wanna elaborate on that?"_

_"Oh, I think you get it. 'Joy in the struggle', was it? Your hipster tattoo?"_

Marti laughs, shaking his head fondly.

He can use almost nothing of their so-called interview from last week. Listening back, trying to take notes, is only making it more obvious. If he wants to write this article he's going to have to put a different spin on it.

He can't sell it as an "interview with the artist" and then pretend he only asked... what? Two questions?

If that.

Trust Nico to make his job harder. Marti grins and grabs his phone to tell him just that.

**Nico, h. 10.29**

_the interview recording is useless and i blame you entirely :P_

Marti's fingers hover over the keyboard.

He knows he shouldn't. Not if he actually wants to have the article published in a couple of days, as planned.

He types _can you come over so we can finish it?_ just to see how it looks written out, and wonders if Nico would think it as unsubtle as he does.

He probably would.

But still he would reply something clever and end the text with a ;). And he would find the time to come over, no matter how busy, and Marti would open the door and Nico would be there, smiling in that knowing way of his.

Marti would probably kiss him right there and then, crowding him against the door, as they close it with the combined weight of their bodies.

And Nico would kiss back, pulling Marti to him, holding his face in his hands in that way he has.

Like he's handling a work of art.

And Marti wouldn't break the kiss as he starts unbuttoning Nico's stupidly expensive jacket. Except _Nico_ would break the kiss then, pretending to be surprised because "oh? Is this how interviews are conducted these days?"

And Marti would roll his eyes but he would let go of Nico, maybe even take a step back, so Nico would have to grab him by the arm and pull him back in, and Marti wouldn't even try to resist him then.

They would kiss again, slower now, more deliberate, with purpose. Nico would get rid of the jacket himself and Marti would start walking backwards to his room, pulling Nico with him by the belt loops on his trousers-

Marti is startled out of his daydream by his phone buzzing in his hands. He looks down at it, expecting a reply from Nico – it never takes him long to reply to Marti's texts – but he's in no luck.

Marti raises an eyebrow.

He's got a new e-mail from Filippo. He and Marti have been friends for years, ever since Filippo kindly informed him, at the time of Marti's first trip to the Gay Street, that there were in fact no straight people no be seen.

The subject line is enough for Marti to know he's not going to like it:

_.•°✭°•☆°✫.•°Join the Masquerade°•.✫°☆•°✭°•._

Marti sighs. As it always tends to happen with Filippo, he has no idea what's going on, but he's already feeling vaguely threatened.

As he reads the e-mail, the sense of impending doom only grows stronger:

_Honorable ladies! Esteemed lords! Nobles all!_

_You are all invited to the Masquerade of the Century to celebrate the anniversary of the birth of yours truly. The celebrations shall commence on Saturday May 2nd (10pm) at the Sava Mansion. Who knows when they will end!_

_Please note that attendees not wearing a costume will be made to wear a costume upon arrival. You are all kindly invited to RSVP in case of attendance, which is the only case contemplated, for I have invited you._

_P.S. If any among you are thinking of showing up in a white pastic mask you bought on e-bay for 99 cents... think again._

_Your benevolent sovereign,  
Filippo Sava_

Marti keeps staring at the screen for a good minute after he's done reading.

_... what the fuck._

The worst part is, he knows he will go – he will have to: not only has Filippo made abundantly clear he has no other choice, but Marti cares too much about him not to show up at his birthday party he obviously spent a lot of time and effort planning.

But still.

Marti mouths "honorable ladies, esteemed lords, nobles all" to himself.

It's going to be a nightmare.

_i hate you_, he writes back (he's RSVP-ing, isn't he?) and doesn't even sign it. Filippo will understand.

The silver lining of this is that Marti will now need some help with the costume. He doesn't hate this part nearly as much as he would have in different circumstances.

_can you come over so we can finish it?_

The words stare at Marti mockingly from his phone screen, written out but not sent.

Marti shakes his head. He can't, he has to work: he still hasn't written a single word all morning. So he goes for something different:

**Nico, h. 11.12**

_wake up ni i need your art brain to start working on something_

*

**Nico, h. 17.54**

_hey is everything alright?_

*

Marti starts wondering around three but isn't genuinely worried until late in the afternoon.

Not replying isn't like Nico at all.

Marti tries calling too, just before dinner time, as he's waiting for the water to boil so he can make pasta, but it goes straight to voicemail.

Nico could be busy, Marti supposes, maybe working on a new piece, maybe talking to a prospective buyer. But that wouldn't last the whole day, would it?

Maybe he had a family emergency? Maybe he has the flu.

He thinks of passing by just to ask if Nico needs anything from the shops or the pharmacy before remembering he _can't_ because he doesn't know where Nico lives.

If anything, that makes him more anxious.

There's a voice in his ear, getting louder and louder as the minutes pass and Nico still doesn't reply, whispering to him that something is not right. That he should know Nico's address by now. Who doesn't know where their boyfriend lives? What if-

_No._

Marti shakes his head in an attempt to get rid of the thought.

It's ridiculous. It's _Nico._ Not... some random guy in some random bar who said "I'll call you" and then never showed up again.

Marti knows this is all true – rationally, he knows. But it's not enough to quell the anxiety. He can feel the voice is still there: quieter maybe, but not quietened.

So Marti grabs his phone and does the only thing that makes sense doing.

"Hey, Marti." Gio picks up at the second ring, his voice calm and familiar in a way that fills him with instant comfort. Marti has never been more grateful.

"Gio, hi," Marti sighs, collapsing onto the nearest chair. He doesn't know how to go on.

Anything he can think of saying sounds ridiculously overblown to his own ears.

"Marti? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just..." He shrugs, hoping it will come across as casual. "Nico hasn't picked up his phone all day."

"Oh," Gio says. He pauses for a second, as if waiting for Marti to add more. "Did you guys have a fight?"

"What? No! I mean, we were at yours the whole time. And when we left..." Marti still doesn't have the words to explain what happened last night, but it most definitely wasn't a fight. "He walked me home."

"Okay... then maybe something came up and he had to deal with it last minute?"

"But why is his phone switched off then?"

"Maybe it broke?" Gio offers sensibly. "Wouldn't be too surprising, he does have a relic of a phone."

"Right," Marti says. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. "Right, that makes sense."

"Are you worried?"

"I mean... yeah? He usually replies instantly and now he still hasn't since this morning. Also..." Marti isn't sure he knows how to phrase it. "I have no other... like, ways of contacting him. Just his phone number. Well, and his e-mail, I guess, but what good does that do?"

"Marti," Gio says decisively. "You're overthinking this. I'm sure he'll write back as soon as he can."

"Yeah, yeah, you're right. I just..."

"Worry. Yeah, I know." Marti can hear the kind smile in Gio's voice. "Have you eaten?"

Marti scoffs.

"I'm making pasta right now. _Mum._" They both laugh at that, Marti relishing the feeling that certain things never seem to change. "What are you doing?"

"Grading papers. Waiting for Eva to come back so we can have _quiche lorraine._" He rolls the Rs excessively for effect and Marti smiles.

"Sounds fancy."

"Yeah. Looks... not so fancy but it's my first attempt, so I'm not mad."

Marti snorts a laugh.

"Liar."

"Fuck you," Gio deadpans, before sighing heavily. "Well, okay, I'm _a bit_ mad. This lady on Youtube made it look like it was the easiest thing in the world when it's just not-"

Marti's phone buzzes in his hand. He misses the end of Gio's tirade as he quickly removes it from his ear to look at the screen.

Seeing Nico's name is enough to flood him with relief.

"Nico replied!" he can't help but announce, putting Gio on speaker.

"See? I told you. What does he say? Did his WWII Nokia finally die?"

"One second."

Marti opens Nico's text with jittery fingers.

**Nico, h. 20.02**

_i think i made a mistake. i'm sorry marti, i can't do this. i thought i could but i can't. hope you can forgive me even though i have no right to it. have the best life you can, you deserve it_

"So? What does he say?" Gio's voice, distorted by the speaker, seems to reach Marti from a different dimension. "Marti, can you hear me? What does Nico say? Marti...?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... hi. No, I wasn't possessed by the spirit of a soap writer, I'm still me. Hope you're ready for some angst.
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	13. The way it is

There's a crack on the bedroom ceiling. He's never noticed it before.

It runs obliquely for about fifty centimetres, somewhere just right of centre from the middle of the room.

Marti wouldn't be surprised if it was his doing, if he somehow managed to crack the paint and maybe even the concrete just by staring at the ceiling for too long.

He doesn't know how long it's been. He's not even sure he's slept, though he must have at some point.

Doesn't feel like it, though.

The blinds are drawn but it's obviously day, sunlight creeping in with the unappealing promise of what's outside the cocoon of blankets Marti is enveloped in. He doesn't feel like leaving it, despite being slightly too hot for comfort under the covers.

It takes a sudden noise from the other room for Marti to finally look away. A metallic sound.

Marti doesn't even realise what it is at first, and yet he can't seem to summon enough energy to be worried.

A few moments, and then it sinks in.

Keys jingling, turning inside the lock. The front door creaking open.

"Marti?"

_Gio._

His voice quiet, little more than a whisper.

Marti doesn't reply.

He turns on one side, his back to the bedroom door. He pulls the covers up to his chin and pretends he's asleep.

He hears Gio's careful steps in the living room first and then along the hallway – slower, more tentative – until he stops right in front of Marti's bedroom.

The door is already ajar.

Marti can't see Gio but he can picture him clearly, taking in Marti's vague shape under the covers, frowning deep, concern written all over his face.

"Marti?" he repeats, only slightly louder than before.

Marti feels a pang of guilt at not replying this time.

He hears Gio sigh and imagines him shaking his head before walking out, the sound of his steps getting fainter as he makes his way down the hallway again.

It's hardly the end of this, Marti knows.

Only a few moments later he hears the water running in the kitchen followed by the tell-tale clink of the kettle being put on the stove.

The thought alone makes Marti nauseous.

He closes his eyes and hopes to fall asleep for real.

*

A second later, or possibly after a whole lifetime, Gio puts the tray down on the nightstand making a lot more noise than necessary.

Marti hears him take off his shoes and feels the bed dip as Gio sits on it, legs crossed.

"Marti? Wake up, man, I made tea. And biscuits. But I didn't make those."

Marti figures pretending to be asleep at this point would be pushing it.

He rolls slowly onto his back. He doesn't really look at Gio when he speaks, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"Thank you, I'm not hungry."

"You have to eat something," Gio insists. "Or just drink the tea, if you don't want the biscuits."

"I don't want the tea either. Go home, Gio. I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," Gio says decisively. "I think we should talk about it."

"About what?" Marti's tone is halfway between annoyed and pleading. _Please, please don't make me say it out loud._ "There's nothing to say."

"Have you tried calling him?"

"No."

"_Marti._"

"Yes, four times! It's switched off! Happy now?" Marti snaps. That takes Gio by surprise and shuts him up, at least for a couple of seconds. Marti regrets it immediately. "Sorry, I- It's just..." Marti makes a half-hearted gesture that doesn't mean anything and lets his arms fall down heavily at his sides.

"Okay, but listen. Nonono." Gio talks over Marti's weak protests. "You don't have to say anything. I'll talk. Listen." He waits for Marti to look up at him before continuing in a serious tone. "You need to understand what this is about. You won't get closure otherwise. You need to talk to him and tell him he doesn't get to just _disappear_-"

"Well, it's hard to tell him stuff when he doesn't pick up his fucking phone!" Marti interrupts, voice breaking. He exhales and closes his eyes so Gio won't see how close he is to actually crying. He knew he shouldn't have said anything in the first place. "It's not even... It's just the way it is. Just how it goes. Everytime."

It sounds pathetic to Marti's own ears. The way Gio's eyes go wide and his mouth twitches nervously in response makes it almost unbearable.

Gio sighs and lies down slowly, almost too carefully, on the bed so he and Marti are at the same level. Marti sees out of the corner of his eye that Gio is looking up at the ceiling too.

He wonders if he's noticed the crack.

"Don't say that. It's not true," Gio says after a long pause. It almost feels like a non-sequitur now.

Almost.

"It is. It was like that with Leo. I thought we were doing fine and then out of the blue-"

"But with Nico was not like with Leo." Gio turns his head to look at Marti. "Right?"

Marti doesn't dare ask Gio how he knows.

"Yeah," he admits uneasily. "Which is why I thought... you know, maybe this time? I don't know." Marti shakes his head. "Nico did say some... things... about his ex and stuff. But I thought- It seemed like he wanted this? I _asked_ and he told me he wanted this. He never said-" It's too much for Marti to continue down this train of thought, but it still takes a lot of strength to shrug the thought away. "Whatever, that's just how it always goes, I guess."

Gio sighs again. His fingers wrap around Marti's wrist and he just holds on, firm and steady, trying to be an anchor if he can't be of comfort.

It's funny how that brings back memories.

Old and golden and enveloped in nostalgia. Memories of entire afternoons spent lying together like this, on Gio's bed or at the park.

Talking about everything. Hyperconscious of every inch of skin touching.

Well, Marti was at least.

"Do you remember when we were kids and I thought I was in love with you?" Marti asks. He looks at Gio, who turns to lie on one side, facing Marti.

He nods slowly.

"Yeah." 

"That was better," Marti says on an exhale.

"Marti, no-"

Marti nods quickly.

"Yes," he insists. He can feel the tears starting to spill but he's too tired to stop them now. "At least... at least you were there, you know? At least you never left."

A long silence follows, weirdly appropriate too. Then Gio squeezes his wrist so hard it hurts.

Marti knows what it means, and it startles a grateful sob out of him. Gio being there always, no matter what, means more to Marti than he will ever be able to say.

So he doesn't say it – there is no need anyway.

Marti sniffles, a bit pathetically, and wipes his eyes on the pillowcase.

"Okay, but don't look at me like that," he mumbles instead.

It sounds enough like Marti that Gio smiles.

"Like what?"

"Like _that._" Marti gestures vaguely in Gio's direction. "Like I'm one of those sad puppy dogs at Luca's shelter."

Gio laughs at that and even the corner of Marti's mouth stretches into the beginning of a smile.

"You know," Gio says, voice low, like it's a secret. "Last time me and Eva went there, there was this red cocker spaniel moping in his kennel, and listen-"

Marti slaps Gio's shoulder with his free arm, but that only makes him laugh more. He looks way too pleased to have got a reaction out of Marti. It makes Marti roll his eyes.

"Are going to drink your tea now?" Gio asks, eyebrows raised.

He leans over the side of the bed to take the mug and pass it to Marti, who touches the side of it with tentative fingers.

"It's gone cold."

Gio snorts.

"Well, then you're gonna have to crawl out of there and microwave it. I'm not your nanny." Gio stares at Marti expectantly, as if daring him to contradict him.

Marti huffs, but to be fair the heat under the covers has become suffocating. He kicks them off and sits up, pretending he doesn't see the way Gio nods approvingly.

"Okay, okay, I'm getting up. But." Marti lifts his finger in warning. "We talk about something else. I can't- I don't want- I just... don't want to think about... _all of that_ right now."

"Fine, fine." Gio is quick to agree, sitting up in bed too, mirroring Marti. "We can talk about something else."

"Mmm."

"For example... what's this Eva tells me about a costume party?"

"Oh, _that._" Marti sighs, grabbing the headboard to help himself up while holding the mug to his chest.

His head spins slightly after spending so much time lying down and Marti has to wait for the room to stop moving before speaking again.

He'd completely forgotten about Filippo's masquerade party. About that text he sent asking Nico to-

No. _Not now._

Marti pushes the unfortunate mental connections as far back as he can, but quickly realises there's not much else he has to say.

He sighs again.

"Whatever, I'm not going."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm here, I'm here! Just super busy!
> 
> Sorry for making you wait. I'm not abandoning the story, I just have a lot to do at the moment, so I won't be able to keep up with the posting schedule like before.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and for your patience <3


	14. So fucking obvious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know what I said, and Saturday is definitely not the new Tuesday, but I've somehow come up with a 2k chapter so here you go. Hope you enjoy!

The first thing Marti sees when he opens the door are candles. Countless, white, casting their warm light from every available surface.

They create strange shadows on the living room walls – the elaborate masks and headwear Marti can only catch glimpses of, as the people wearing them move about, chatting and eating and laughing, only enhancing the feeling of unrealness.

Filippo's party certainly makes an impression.

Warm. Crowded. Dream-like.

The door was closed when they got here, though a muffled synthpop tune could be heard from the outside. There was a sign on the door, written in elegant cursive:

_Come in! (If you were invited)_

So they did. He and Eva, that is.

She's the only reason he's here.

She showed up at his flat a little after nine with two (admittedly not too terrible) matching blue masks lined in silver. When Marti opened the door, she lifted one in front of her eyes and pouted at him, pleading.

"Why don't you go with Gio?" Marti tried to argue, but she only rolled her eyes.

"He'd come dressed as a peasant 'in protest' and you know it."

"But I have nothing to wear!"

"We'll find something passable."

They didn't, not really. Marti had to bite his tongue not to say "I told you so".

"You have so much blue stuff. Why not a suit jacket?" Eva huffed, as she helped him button up an old gray suit jacket Marti last wore at some cousin's wedding a million years ago.

It didn't really fit the blue aesthetic Eva was going for with the masks and her own dress, but she couldn't really be surprised Marti's wardrobe fell short in the "elegant attire" department.

"This is the only one I have," Marti said, feeling a bit like a ragdoll Eva was playing dress-up with. "I hate suits."

The words only hit a couple of seconds later, and Marti tried not to cringe at the irony.

_Nico probably owns a suit in every shade under the sun._

He tried to push away the thought but something must have shown on his face because Eva frowned at him as she was smoothing down the wrinkles on his jacket.

Marti reluctantly made eye contact with her.

"We'll have fun, you'll see," she said with a small smile, caressing his arm gently. She wasn't smoothing down wrinkles anymore.

Marti knew Gio respected his wish not to talk about it and didn't share any details, but it probably wasn't too hard to put two and two together.

He looked down at the floor, embarrassed.

"Thank you," he mumbled, and Eva smiled again. They both knew he wasn't talking about the wrinkles.

*

They make their way from the door with some difficulty and, after a lot of mumbled "excuse me"s and some accidental stepping-on-feet, they manage to grab a glass and find a semi-quiet spot in the overcrowded living room.

Marti would never say it out loud but he's a bit grateful for the mask.

He probably knows quite a few people here but he struggles to recognise them in their costumes. And no one approached him either so far, which is the best Marti could ask for, to be honest.

He's not in the mood to talk.

"Hey! Is that...?" Eva points her wine glass towards the opposite end of the living room, near the buffet table.

Marti can't see much, there's too many people around, but he can see the shape of a silver crown standing tall among people's heads.

He snorts into his glass.

"Obviously."

As if on cue, Marti sees the crown turn on the spot, shining almost orange in the candlelight.

Under a silver mask that covers the top half of his face, Filippo smiles, charming as always, as he parts the crowd like the Red Sea and his eyes zero in on Marti and Eva at the other end of the room.

His smile gets wider.

As he opens his arms in their direction in a welcoming gesture, his crown wobbles dangerously on his head and the military jacket he's wearing – more Freddie Mercury than Renaissance king but Marti knows better than to point it out – slids down from his shoulders.

Marti finds himself smiling despite himself when Filippo rolls his eyes and fixes both with an impatient gesture as he's walking towards them.

"Pool party next year," is the first thing he says, before leaning down to kiss Eva on both cheeks.

Eva laughs.

"Abdicating already?"

"Never that, love. I can rule in my towel. And speaking of towel." Filippo raises an eyebrow at Marti as he eyes his jacket critically. "What _on earth_ are you wearing?"

Marti sighs when Filippo kisses him on both cheeks too.

"It's the only suit jacket I have."

"Is it your grandfather's?"

Marti only shrugs at that, but he must do it the wrong way. Filippo narrows his eyes at him, like he's sensing something is wrong.

"Though I must say," he continues, glancing quickly at Eva and then back at Marti. "You do look cute in your matching masks. Like brother and sister!"

Marti offers him a small smile.

Probably too small. Filippo reaches out and stretches Marti's mouth so it looks like he's smiling for real. Filippo grins when Marti huffs a genuine laugh, pushing his hands away.

"And what about _your_ sister?" Eva asks. She glances around curiously, craning her neck to see better. "She told me Edoardo was coming too. Are they already here?"

"They'll be a bit late." Filippo rolls his eyes. "Apparently Rich Guy has Rich Things to do before gracing us with his presence at my humble abode."

"So rude," Eva deadpans, and Filippo nods, way too seriously for it to be believable.

"I know. And he's keeping my sister away from me too, can you believe?" he says dramatically. "There is nothing in this world that could cheer me up right now." He glances meaningfully in the direction of Eva's purse, which looks a bit funny, like she tried to stuff too much into it.

Marti scoffs, but he does feel a bit guilty when Eva extracts the present from her purse with an eyeroll and offers it to Filippo, announcing it's from them both.

He doesn't know what Eva bought. He didn't even think of asking what it is, how much it cost, how much he owes her.

Marti mumbles something incoherent when Filippo thanks him, delighted, with a hug. He feels his cheeks burn in shame and looks away.

That's when he sees him.

His face is half-covered in a golden mask, but he's unmistakeable, even at a distance, even in low light. His mask almost seems to grow out of his skin, covering one eye and one cheek, the other side of his face exposed.

There are crimson details around the eye, Marti notices as he watches, mesmerised, the way the mask seems to cast its own golden light, rather than reflecting that of the candles.

Nico is as beatiful as always, his dark hair falling gracefully onto the mask, like it's always been there, like it's a part of him. His suit jacket is golden too, and Marti hates that's all he's focusing on.

He's angry. He's sad. He's scared.

And Nico still takes his breath away.

Marti wants to hide and also go up to him demanding an explanation, but does neither. He just keeps staring.

Nico hasn't seen him. Marti watches as Nico turns his head and leans down, smiling kindly in a way that's all too familiar, as someone whispers something into his ear.

It takes Marti a while to tear his gaze away from Nico and notice the person speaking to him.

It's a girl, wearing an elegant long black dress, her hair in an elaborate up-do. She's wearing a mask too: black, lined with lace and small feathers. It's one of those you keep on with a stick in your hand.

On some unconscious level, Marti knows who she is.

He knows before she starts laughing at whatever she's just said, making Nico huff a laugh too. He knows before she brings a hand to her mouth not to giggle too loudly, the mask falling away and revealing her face.

_Maddalena.___

_ _Marti gasps, though he's kidding himself._ _

_ _The smile gave her away way long before her eyes did, the same smile Marti admired at Nico's gallery the first day they met._ _

_ _But even if it hadn't... it's just so fucking obvious, Marti has no idea how he didn't see it coming._ _

_ _He feels his face get hot in shame and then cold immediately afterwards, as realisation hits. He feels dizzy._ _

_ _He hears Eva say something to him, her tone concerned, but he can't really hear the words._ _

_ _"I need some air. One second," he hears himself say. He doesn't look at her or at Filippo, but he manages to keep his voice level somehow._ _

_ _He starts making his way through the crowd. He walks slowly, his steps measured, controlled, his eyes fixed on the door._ _

_ _He opens it in a daze, only vaguely registering how the music gets dull, muffled once's he pulled it closed it behind him._ _

_ _He takes the stairs, even manages to nod back to some guy's mumbled "good evening" as he steps aside to let him pass._ _

_ _He finds himself out the front gate._ _

_ _He takes off his mask and breathes in and out once, the lights reflecting off the cobbled street making everything look way too solid and real._ _

_ _The fizzy night breeze hits him out of the blue like a slap in the face._ _

_ _Marti starts running._ _

_ _*_ _

_ _Rome is a blur of warm colours and night sky and electric lights and laughter and shouts Marti barely even registers._ _

_ _Filippo doesn't live that far but Marti can't run all the way home, his lungs are burning already. So he takes a bus – but when his thoughts get too loud and vivid, and he can't bear standing still, he gets off early and starts running again._ _

_ _He hates running, has always hated it, it feels like his muscles are screaming for rest, but the pain is a blessing right now._ _

_ _It keeps his mind busy._ _

_ _It gets way harder not to think once he's back home._ _

_ _The flat is a mess. Marti hasn't tidied up in days, didn't have the energy. And it's not like he didn't know it, but it hits him harder now, somehow, to go back to this._ _

_ _To see how low he's sunk._ _

_ _There's stuff everywhere. Dirty clothes and mugs and plates, wires and chargers he didn't even know he had, and, God, so much paper Marti wants to cry._ _

_ _Printed out article drafts, magazines, books, post-its, all piled up messily on top of his desk, a few painfully familiar pizza delivery leaflets on top._ _

_ _That's what does it, really._ _

_"Where do you wanna order from?"_

_ _Marti lets out an angry sob, his eyes prickling with tears at the memory, and kicks the desk as hard as he can._ _

_ _It gives out._ _

_ _The desk is old, the legs wooden and fragile. The one Marti kicks breaks in half and the whole desk collapses onto the floor with a loud crash, bringing everything down with it._ _

_ _Marti lets himself fall slowly onto the floor too, the rage gone as quickly as it had come._ _

_ _He surveys the mess around him and just feels empty. He knows he needs to clean up now but he can barely move._ _

_ _He picks up a few items distractedly: a post-it note with someone's e-mail address Marti can't remember anything about, probably work-related; a printed-out schedule of his work meetings for January; a newspaper clipping with an article about some foreign museum Marti meant to check out and never did; the battered copy of a book whose cover has practically fallen of._ _

_ _It takes a few seconds for it to click and, when it finally does, Marti can only stare at it. At the golden statue of a prince looking back at him from the cover of the book, a black bird on his shoulder._ _

Wilde's _Happy Prince_, the copy he borrowed from the library and then hid away so Nico wouldn't see it. 

_ _Marti could throw it away. He almost does._ _

_ _Except... he doesn't really want to._ _

_ _He spent so much time trying to contact Nico, hoping to get an explanation from him, and Nico gave him nothing, didn't even pick up the phone. Just went back to Maddalena, like Marti was never even there._ _

_ _And now this book._ _

_ _Marti remembers thinking it would explain so much about Nico. What he thinks, what he's like, what he's gone through._ _

_ _The explanation Marti never got to have._ _

_ _Marti tells himself nothing could possibly feel worse than this anyway. He shrugs and starts reading right where he is, sitting of the floor, his back against the wall:_ _

_High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for sticking with this story despite the random schedule. This means so much to me <3


	15. The Happy Prince and the Swallow

Once upon a time, there was a golden statue of a Prince, who from the top of his column could see all the suffering of the city.

The Prince was saddened by what he saw and wanted to help the people in need by donating the gemstones and gold he was made of, but he was stuck on top of his column and could not move.

So he asked a Swallow for help.

Everyday, when the Swallow told the Prince he needed to leave for Egypt because he could not stand the cold of winter, the Prince begged him to stay – just one more day.

To carry out one more task for him, to help one more person. Until the Prince had nothing more to give and the Swallow could not stand the cold any longer.

The Swallow died for loving the Prince too much, and the Prince's heart broke in two.

... Marti is on his feet looking for his phone the second he's closed the book.

There's not much hope, he knows. Nico has never answered before.

But Marti has got to do _something._

His hands are shaking as he lifts his phone to his ear, listening to it ringing, waiting for an answer he knows is not coming.

Wilde's words feel like they're firebranded in his brain. When he closes his eyes, breathing in, trying to calm himself, he can practically see them:

_Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. "You are blind now," he said, "so I will stay with you always."_

_"No, little Swallow," said the poor Prince, "you must go away to Egypt."_

_"I will stay with you always," said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince’s feet._

Did Nico think...? But Marti never said... or did he?

Marti tries his best to think of the words he used that night at Gio's when Nico asked about Milan, about why Marti wasn't going, but he can't.

He doesn't remember. He thought nothing of it at the time.

_Please pick up please pick up please pick up,_ Marti thinks desperately, but it's the eighth or ninth ring now and he knows it's not going to happen.

"Voicemail for number 339*******. Please leave a message after the tone."

_Oh, fuck it._

"Listen," Marti says. His voice is shaking already and he can hear he sounds hysterical. "I don't know who taught you literary analysis, but they must fucking suck. You should ask for a refund. If you paid for school that is. Did you? I don't know. Probably? You look like you might have. I mean, your parents might have. I mean- That's not what I'm trying to say."

Marti shakes his head, trying to clear it.

"What I'm trying to say is... I'm not the swallow, okay? I read the story and look... I never wanted to go to Egypt in the first place. I mean, to Milan. To Egypt too but that's not- I'm not- I didn't care for it, Ni." Marti's voice gets pleading. "As soon as I knew it was in Milan, I told Leo I didn't care. You didn't... prevent me from going or anything like that, okay? I'm not the Swallow, I didn't want to go, but also..."

Marti has to pause for breath but his brain doesn't stop. It's like he's making sense of this as he's speaking. At this point he couldn't stop if he tried.

"Also, the Prince did nothing wrong. And I mean the actual Prince, okay? Don't flatter yourself. The Prince was like, the most unselfish person- I mean, statue. I mean- He was just trying to help the poor! By giving everything he had! And the Swallow chose to stay: he _chose_, no one forced him! The Prince even said 'leave, go to Egypt' when it got real cold and the Swallow was like 'nope' and, like. That's his right? That's for the Swallow to decide. You can't- You can't _blame the Prince_ for that. That's not his fault, do you hear me, Ni? That's not his-"

He gets cut off.

"Thank you for your message," the prerecorded voice says in a flat emotionless tone.

Marti is still breathing hard when the call gets disconnected. He collapses heavily onto the sofa and runs a hand through his hair.

How strange that he feels more tired now than after running all the way from Filippo's house.

He wonders if Nico is still there: his phone informs him that it's not even midnight yet, so he might be. He considers going back and for a moment, still high on adrenaline, he can't think of a single reason why he shouldn't.

Then, of course, he remember the obvious.

Nico was with Maddalena.

Funny how he didn't stop for a second to consider that as he blabbered away on his phone about swallows and princes and God knows what else.

He's ashamed of himself.

He's even more ashamed when his phone buzzes in his hands with a new text from Eva.

He can't help but be disappointed. For a second, he had hoped...

**Eva, h. 23.43**

_marti, i'm worried. where are you? did you come back in? i can't find you anywhere _

Marti sighs deeply. He really is the worst friend on the planet.

He types back quickly:

_ sorry, i went home. i'm really sorry about leaving like that. it just all got a bit much_

Eva's reply is instantaneous:

_ok ok don't worry. i'm glad you're ok. i'll call you tomorrow <3___

_ __ _

_ __ _

_<3_

Marti locks his phone and leaves it on the living room table.

He feels restless after leaving that voicemail, on edge, but there's nothing he can do about it now.

He thinks of turning on the tv to distract himself but the thought alone makes his head ache. So he pushes himself up again and walks to the kitchen.

Maybe chamomile tea will help.

*

Marti doesn't go to bed. He doesn't even try to fix the mess in the living room.

He wears his night clothes – trying not to think about the last person who wore this very same Nirvana t-shirt on this very same sofa – and just lies back against the cushions, mug in hand, all the lights off, the house almost unnaturally quiet.

There is something reassuring in the dark.

It may be that he can't see how messy the house is, or it may just be that actions feel without consequences at night – everything postponed to the next day, so far away right now it doesn't even feel real.

Which is why Marti jumps, his teeth clashing against the mug, when the intercom buzzes unexpectedly.

_What...?_

He thinks it might be Gio for a moment: Eva might have called him after Marti disappeared. But then he remembers Gio has the keys to his flat, he doesn't need the intercom.

Marti is afraid to hope as he turns on the lights and lifts the receiver to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Marti? It's Nico." Marti leans back against the wall and breathes out. He wasn't ready to hear his voice again so soon. Or at all. It sounds like Nico is panting too. "I'm- I mean, I got your message. I... I know it's late, and I know I've been horrible to you. I understand if you hate me, really, but. Can we talk? Please?"

Marti has to make an effort to reply like a human person. He's wanted nothing more than for Nico to explain, and now that he's finally here, Marti is terrified.

He can feel his heart beating in his throat. He looks down at his hands: he didn't even realise he'd started twisting the old intercom cord around his finger.

Marti _is_ terrified, there's no denying it. Only... maybe he's not terrified enough.

"... okay," Marti mumbles after a brief pause. He never really considers saying anything different: he's just surprised he actually got the words out. He buzzes Nico in, and his heart aches when he hears Nico's breathy, grateful 'thank you'. "Fourth floor-"

"Flat B, yes, I remember," Nico finishes for him. Marti's stomach twist into a knot at the words. "I'll be up in a second."

"Okay."

Nico takes the stairs.

Behind the door, Marti listens to his steps approaching – too loud and too quick for Marti to believe he's simply walking fast. 

His heart now out of control, Marti throws caution to the wind and opens the door just in time to see Nico sprint up the last flight of stairs.

He stops in front of Marti's door, swallowing visibly. He's still in his costume, wearing his golden jacket and his golden mask.

Marti cannot help but think of Wilde's story:

_He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold..._

It's all there, in a way, but the details are fuzzy and there's something that escapes Marti, still. What's worse, he doesn't know how to say any of it.

Did he ruin everything with that rambling voicemail?

Thankfully, it's Nico who speaks first. He takes off his mask, messing up his hair in the process, and starts playing with it nervously, pulling on the elastic band with his fingers.

"Marti, I'm sorry," he says tentatively. He's still panting hard for the effort of running up the stairs, and God knows for how long before that. "I made a mistake."

Nico looks contrite, almost desperate, and the pull to him is almost irresistible now he's finally here, but Marti forces himself to hold back.

He wants to hear what _Nico_ has to say.

So he sighs deeply, leaning against the door for support. Arms crossed in front of his chest.

"Yes, you said. In your text."

Nico cringes at that, his regret so obvious Marti feels bad for bringing it up.

"Not... not that mistake," Nico replies, his voice little more than a whisper now.

It would be so easy to double down and make Nico feel worse, but Marti doesn't have it him to press the issue when Nico so plainly regrets everything.

So Marti just nods, his eyes on the doormat.

"The text was the mistake," Nico continues, his voice only slightly stronger than before. "I... I know I hurt you. I wish I could take it back. Marti, I swear, I only ever wanted you to be happy."

"I saw you," Marti says. He looks up suddenly and meets Nico's eyes, who look huge and scared and confused. Marti swallows nervously and tilts his head towards the mask in Nico's hands. "At the party. I saw you."

Nico frowns, glancing down at the golden mask he's holding.

"You were at the party?"

Marti shrugs. That doesn't matter now.

"I saw you with Maddalena, Ni," he says. It comes out exhausted, for some reason. Marti sighs. "Are you back together?"

Nico holds his gaze for a long second. It feels deliberate and Marti can feel the intensity of it in his bones.

It makes him shiver.

"We're not," Nico replies. He doesn't break eye contact, like he's trying to communicate through more than just words. "We're... just friends now and I needed- I needed someone who knew. Who could understand. Marti..." He closes his eyes, as if resigned. "I know I fucked up, and I can understand if you can't take my word for it, but-"

"I believe you," Marti says simply.

He can see the surprise in Nico's eyes when he opens them again.

It's obvious he wasn't expecting this. His lips move, but no sound comes out. He takes a minuscule step forward, probably unconsciously.

It makes Marti smile and, at the sight, Nico's mouth stretches into an uncertain smile too.

Marti knows he has to make this decision because Nico will not dare, but it's not that hard.

He takes a step towards Nico and takes his face between his hands. Their lips meet slowly, as if asking for permission, as if testing it out. When they part, Marti feels Nico let out a shaky breath.

"Okay?" he asks under his breath, and Nico shakes his head.

"I've missed you so much."

Marti smiles, though his heart aches, and he kisses him again – gentle still but with more conviction. He hears the dull sound of Nico's mask hitting the floor as Nico's hands fly up to hold his waist.

He hums his appreciation directly into Nico's mouth and takes a step back, pulling Nico inside with him.

The door closes behind Nico with a thud that feels both too loud and too quiet.

Marti crowds close, sinking his fingers into Nico's hair as they tilt they heads and the kiss get deeper. Nico pulls him closer by his hips.

There is no space between them but Nico keeps his hands there, pulling at him so Marti won't move. When they part for breath there is something desperate in Nico's eyes. Not necessarily the good kind.

Nico makes to kiss him again, but Marti holds him there and caresses his cheekbones instead, leaning in so their foreheads are touching.

"I'm here," Marti murmurs. He doesn't know how he manages to keep eye contact, he feels so exposed. But then again maybe that's what they need right now. No more masks. "I'm here, it's okay."

He can feel Nico relax in his arms: he closes his eyes and lets out a deep breath. They stay close but Nico's grip on Marti's hips is looser now, less frantic.

When they make eye contact again it's with a grateful smile that turns into another kiss. Slower now. Lingering.

They don't break it.

Nico pushes at Marti's chest gently so he can step away from the door and take off his jacket. It falls to the floor in a golden heap.

When Nico pushes, Marti goes willingly. Walking backwards, letting Nico lead him, letting his hands explore the skin on his arms and slid under his t-shirt, eager but soft.

They are still kissing when they stumble right in the middle of the living room. Marti bites his own lip in surprise and grabs Nico's forearm not to fall.

Nico falters but manages to keep him on his feet, somehow, and Marti watches him look down and frown at the broken desk, at all the books and sheets of paper scattered on the floor.

"What happened here?!"

Marti just grabs Nico's face with both hands and kisses him again.

"Later," he only manages to say against Nico's lips.

It's good enough for now.

They sidestep the mess Marti made in the living room and Marti pulls Nico with him down the hallway.

Nico's fingers feel cold against Marti's stomach but that's not why he's shivering. He thinks Nico knows. He feels him grin, a bit smug, as he pulls on Marti's t-shirt and helps him take it off.

Nico's eyes are immediately drawn to the tattoo on Marti's upper arm. Marti can feel his cheek colour when Nico leans down and kisses it, tracing the shape of the panther with its lips.

"Come on, Ni. It's ugly," Marti half-whispers, half-laughs, embarrassed.

He's surprised by how kind Nico's eyes look when he looks up at him, his lips still pressed against the panther on Marti's arm.

"It's not, it's yours," he just says.

Marti doesn't know what to say to that. Doesn't know what to do.

So he just grabs Nico's chin with one hand so they can kiss one more time before taking the last three steps that separate him from the bedroom, pulling Nico along with him.

The door falls shut with a quiet click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi <3 I can't believe we're here.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter and thank you for all the love.


	16. Like a kitten

It's all very peaceful.

The traffic sounds from the street below feel muffled and almost like white noise with the window closed. Marti's alarm with its bright red digits informs him it's past two am, and Marti _is_ tired after today, he is.

He just wants to bask in the peace a little longer.

He smiles down at Nico when he feels him stir against his side, his head resting on Marti's chest. He's not sleeping either but doesn't seem that bothered by it.

Maybe it's just that this night feels like a gift to them both and they want to honour it.

Marti leans down, kisses the top of Nico's head, and huffs a quiet laugh when Nico's curls tickle his nose.

Nico looks up with a lopsided smile, tired but happy, and throws a hand around Marti's chest, pressing closer. He even makes a half-hearted attempt to reach Marti's other arm but he doesn't really move from where he is.

Marti raises an eyebrow at that but moves his arm closer to his side so Nico can reach it. Nico's touch is feather-light as he traces the trail of carnations up Marti's arm until he reaches the panther tattoo again.

Marti rolls his eyes, though it's hard to pretend he's annoyed by Nico's hands on his skin.

"Again?"

"Mh," Nico only says. "It's strange."

His tone sounds contemplative – almost too contemplative. It makes Marti suspicious.

"What?"

Nico looks up and bites his lower lip, amused but silent. Marti pulls on his hair in retaliation.

"Come on. Spill."

"Nothing, just..." Nico wiggles his eyebrows as he keeps tracing Marti's tattoo with his forefinger. "Not much of a panther, are you? More like... a kitten."

Nico giggles way too enthusiastically at his own joke and Marti snorts.

"Is it a complaint?"

"Just an observation." Nico kisses the base of Marti's neck and Marti hums his appreciation. "A zoological fact."

"Ah, yes. I forgot about your zoological facts."

Nico raises an eyebrow.

"Have I shared zoological facts before?"

"The giraffe?" Marti offers in a 'duh' tone. "Aren't you the resident expert or something?"

"Oh!" Nico looks surprised. "Oh, yeah."

"So, resident expert." Marti twists his index finger in Nico's hair. "What do I do when I catch one?"

Nico's smile gets lopsided, like he thinks he knows where this is going but he's not 100% sure.

"One giraffe?" he asks.

Marti drags his hand down along Nico's cheek and neck and squeezes his shoulder.

_Yes, I mean you, you idiot. Weren't you all about metaphors?_

"Mh-hm."

"Well, maybe... maybe if you caught it, it wanted to be caught, you know?" Nico says. It's endearing how his smile is almost shy now, how he's almost looking up at Marti but not _really_. "Long legs and all."

"So I did nothing is what you're saying, basically," Marti jokes, poking Nico's shoulder.

He doesn't expect Nico to stop smiling all of a sudden. He almost looks guilty when their eyes meet again, and Marti frowns.

"I didn't-"

"You did the most, Marti. And I don't deserve any of it," Nico says with a sigh. He lays his head back down on Marti's chest, as if defeated.

"Ni, what? I'm here, you're here. That's all that matters."

Nico shakes his head without looking up.

"I haven't told you everything."

Marti knows.

He doesn't know what Nico has been holding back, but Marti knows there's a part of him Nico hasn't shared yet.

But it's okay. There is no rush.

"I'm not going anywhere," Marti says. He lifts Nico's chin to make him look up. "Are you?"

Nico shakes his head.

"Well then." Marti smiles until he sees Nico's lips stretch in a small unconvinced smile too. "We can sleep now and talk later, okay?"

"Okay."

Nico's reply is little more than a whisper. Marti feels him settle down on his chest, one arm bent and close to his body, the other one across Marti's chest.

Marti caresses Nico's hair slowly and checks the time again: 3:07.

He tells himself this night has lasted long enough. He closes his eyes and lets the rhythmic sound of Nico's breath lull him to sleep.

*

When Marti opens his eyes again, Nico is there.

Just... not there _there_.

Marti expected – maybe hoped – they would wake up together, legs tangled, exchanging slow caresses and lazy tired smiles turning into kisses turning into smiles again.

But Nico is already awake.

On his feet, looking out of the window, his back to the bed. He's wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms he must have found in the wardrobe and Marti's old "if you want breakfast in bed sleep in the kitchen" gray t-shirt.

"Hey."

Nico turns, surprised. His face opens up in a slow smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Hi."

"Awake already?"

Nico shrugs.

"Lots to think about."

Marti smiles and pats the mattress to his left. Nico hesitates, but when Marti lifts both eyebrows he huffs a quiet laugh and sits down gingerly at the edge of the bed.

A long silence follows.

"I don't know where to start," Nico admits in a quiet voice, without looking up.

Marti reaches out and rests a hand on Nico's knee.

"Try the beginning."

Nico makes a sound, half a laugh, half a self-deprecating snort.

"The beginning," he repeats, like he's trying to figure out when that is. "Okay." Nico takes a deep breath. "Do you remember... my art opening? When I didn't show up on time?"

Marti nods, though he can feel his stomach clench at the words.

It's impossible to forget how it all began for the two of them. But Marti suspects he's about to find out he was even more of a jerk than he thought he was.

"I... had a panic attack that night," Nico says, and it sounds like a sigh. "It happens to me sometimes, that my anxiety gets of out control. It's... it's common when you have BPD. That your emotions are dialed up."

Nico looks up, tentative, and Marti isn't sure what Nico reads on his face. He isn't sure what he's thinking himself.

To him, BPD is little more than a three-letter acronym he's sure he's heard before but he probably couldn't spell out. But he can tell that Nico sharing this with him is a huge deal.

He squeezes Nico's knee and offers him a small smile. When he notices Nico's hand opening and closing nervously at his side he reaches out and offers his.

Nico takes it and entwines their fingers with a grateful sigh.

"In the end, I managed to show up and do the thing anyway, I don't know how," Nico continues. "The opening meant so much to me, after everything that had gone on before. And I just... felt like I couldn't fail at this too." He shakes his head. "That's probably what triggered the panic attack in the first place. Well... that's what my therapist said anyway."

"Ni..." Marti swallows. He feels a bit guilty about bringing it up now, about making this about him. But he also can't _not_ say it. "I'm sorry about the article, really. If I'd known, I never would-"

"I know. It's fine." Nico shrugs. "You made me laugh about what happened when I didn't think I could. Not so soon, anyway."

"But-"

Nico rolls his eyes.

"I've already accepted your apologies, Marti. It's fine, I promise."

"Okay," Marti concedes in a quiet voice. "I still feel like shit, though."

"Welcome to the club," Nico offers with a small smile. "Also, I'm not- this is not... This is not what I wanted to say." He shakes his head. "I mean, it is, but. There's more."

"Is this about what happened with Maddalena?" Marti asks softly.

Nico nods, but Marti already knew.

Nico tried talking about it once before, and even then the details were so painful Nico couldn't really get into them.

Marti doesn't want to force anything out of Nico that he's not ready to say. He just wants him to find some peace.

_Meaning? Peace? Happiness? They're the same thing really._

Marti smiles. Nico was trying to tell him all along.

He's trying to tell him _now_ as he gestures vaguely in Marti's direction, his hands moving about, restless.

"Can I...?"

Marti opens his arms wide, offering, but Nico moves slowly.

He lays down on the bed and scoots up so he and Marti are at the same level. They just look at each other for a long moment, serious, until Nico moves closer and lets Marti's arms envelop him in a hug.

He hides his face in the crook of Marti's neck. Marti feels him exhale deeply against his skin before he starts to speak, his words muffled.

"Maddi and I... She was working at the university at the time. We... we met when she started researching this artist whose exhibition I was curating. We..." Nico's voice breaks. Marti doesn't know what to do apart from holding him tighter. He feels the tears Nico is trying to hide wet against his skin.

"We had been together for three years when she- she was offered this job as a researcher at a university abroad. In the States. She considered going for a while, but she ended up turning it down... to be with me."

That feels familiar, like a missing puzzle piece Marti had forgotten he was looking for.

But he doesn't care about putting two and two together right now. He only cares about Nico in arms, so fragile and so strong at the same time.

Marti kisses the top of his head. He hears Nico sniffle, before resuming his story.

"Six months later she was told that her contract with her university here was not going to be renewed. That's... that's also when we broke up. It wasn't-" Nico sighs deeply. "Things had been going badly for a while, but the timing was just... awful. She lost her job here after turning down the job in America – all for a relationship that ended up failing."

"It wasn't your fault," Marti whispers urgently. He runs his hand up and down Nico's back, slowly, in a soothing gesture.

Nico says nothing. Marti thinks maybe he didn't hear him, or maybe he doesn't want to talk anymore. It takes a moment, but Nico looks up in the end.

His eyes are all red and swollen. Marti's heart aches as he reaches out, wiping a tear from Nico's cheek.

"That's... that's what Maddi said when I- well. And my therapist as well. And Lidia later, when I started working at the bookshop. And... everyone, really. It took a while but I started accepting that maybe, you know, it could be true. That it wasn't all my fault. That it wasn't anyone's fault, it just happened. And it sucked, but Maddi found a new job, and she was okay with things now. And I..."

"You were working on your art," Marti says, because he knows this part of the story.

"Yeah. I started doing that again. And then there was the exhibition, and I panicked, but... it went alright. I even met you. Practically a miracle." Nico smiles and it's like his whole face lights up with it. "I thought I would get over it, in time. Only, when you told me about Milan..."

"It brought it all back." Marti nods in understanding. "I get it."

"I'm so sorry, Marti, I swear. I just... I- It was the Prince and the Swallow all over again and I just... panicked." Nico's lips stretch in a self-deprecating smile. "Again."

"It's okay. We're together now." Marti leans in a bit, as if asking for permission, and smiles when Nico closes the gap and kisses him first. Just a gentle touching of lips, a little wet because of Nico's tears. "Again," Marti adds against Nico's lips, and that makes them both laugh.

"What do you want to do today?" Marti asks softly. He pushes Nico's hair back, away from his face, as Nico wipes his tears on Marti's pillowcase.

Nico scoffs.

"Nothing," he says like it's obvious. "Stay in bed. Cuddle. With you." Nico throws an arm across Marti and closes his eyes again. "End of Sunday."

"What, like a kitten?" Marti says, teasing.

Nico doesn't open his eyes but Marti sees him smile anyway. He looks tired, his eyes are still swollen from all the crying, but he's not restless anymore.

He looks... not relaxed, exactly. But like he might relax eventually.

"Like a kitten," Nico confirms, squeezing Marti's side and scooting even closer.

Marti smiles.

He doesn't know what to do with everything he's feeling so he kisses Nico's forehead and squeezes him right back.

When he falls back asleep, Nico snoring softly in his arms, Marti is still smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're approaching the end of this story! I think there might be just one chapter left? Unless it gets too long and I have to split it in two parts. But anyway, not a lot left!
> 
> Thank you for reading and for your comments and kudos! I'm so glad you've been enjoying the story so far. Hope you liked the new chapter as well <3


	17. That blog of yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Ines for the red thread metaphor <3

_"Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative," Oscar Wilde once said. I thought I'd start with that, though I wouldn't consider myself an especially imaginative person. I suppose some people do change their mind a lot because they enjoy looking for new things and new challenges. It's only natural when exposed to many different influences to be affected by them. But other people, well. They have to hit their head very hard first._

_The exhibition by Niccolò Fares, 32 (closing this Wednesday after a successful run) was one such blow for me. I've referenced the event before and not in especially flattering terms. At the time I hadn't seen the art (or met the artist) yet. As it turns out, that makes all the difference. Who would have guessed?_

_I should have. What I wrote in my article was wrong on a number of levels (actually, on all of them apart from the grammatical), but I was lucky enough to be offered a chance to reconsider. I'd like to encourage you to do the same in case you were reckless enough to trust my past opinion. But mea culpas aside, the exhibition really is worth it._

_While clearly not designed to be displayed together (and how refreshing is _that!_), most of the works exhibited appear connected by a fairly literal red thread..._

*

It doesn't feel much like a déjà vu.

Sure, the door of the gallery is as imposing (and heavy) as it was the first time Marti was here. And the marble floor is just as white and spotless.

Even the guy guarding the entrance is the same one Marti shouted at at the opening for refusing to give out information on Nico's whereabouts.

But Nico is with him now, and everything feels different.

Marti and the guy make eye contact. He's about to mumble some sort of vaguely apologetic greeting, but he's distracted by the way the guy's eyes go huge in recognition. Or shock.

Or both.

Marti watches him gaze from him to Nico and back again, his mouth half-open like a fish.

They probably make quite an impression together, Marti knows. Nico beaming in his elegant three-piece blue suit and... Marti. In a burgundy t-shirt which is probably a bit wrinkled and a pair of jeans.

Holding hands.

If he hadn't had a week or so to get used to idea, Marti would be fish mouthing too.

"Livio! Hi!" Nico lets go of Marti's hand to shake the guy's. "How are things tonight?" He peeks inside the main hall. From where he's standing Marti can't see, but the chattering coming from inside sounds promising: quite a few people must have already gathered for the closing event. Nico's smile gets wider. "Seems like we're doing fine, yeah?"

"We're doing very well, Mr Fares." Livio's eyes flit back to Marti quickly, almost like he can't help it, and Nico notices.

"Oh, of course." Nico gestures towards Marti. "Livio, this is Martino, my boyfriend. He writes for _Il Cavaliere Azzurro_. Marti, Livio. The only one who knows how to run things around here."

Marti offers his hand for Livio to shake.

"Nice to meet you," he says, a bit awkwardly. "Thank you for... you know. Running things the right way."

He can tell from the way Livio seems to stand up straighter in his spotless uniform that he understands Marti's words as the apology they are.

"Thank you. Nice to meet you too, sir," he says, shaking Marti's hand.

And, yeah.

Being called "sir" is hardly Marti's favourite thing, but he suspects there might be an apology hidden in there too.

Nico startles them both by clapping his hands together, obviously excited. 

"Right! I guess we should go in? Everything okay with the catering and... all that stuff?"

Marti doesn't manage to hide a snort at Nico's attempt to sound like he knows how any of this works.

Nico rolls his eyes and pretends to slap his arm for that, but Marti can see him bite his lip so he won't smile.

Livio doesn't seems fazed in the slightest.

"No problems at all, Mr Fares."

"Okay then."

Nico turns to look at Marti. His eyes are shining and he's practically bouncing with excitement. Marti takes his hand again, entwines their fingers together to make sure Nico won't float away in anticipation.

(And, okay. Also because it feel nice.)

"Ready?" Marti asks with a smile.

Nico's answering smile can only be defined as blinding.

"I think I am, actually."

*

... Marti isn't, though.

"Mr Fares, can I have a word?"

"Niccolò! So good to see you, my boy. I couldn't believe it when I read in the local paper-"

"-but outside of the constrictions of what one is forced to call Realism, don't you agree?"

Marti has to regretfully let go of Nico's hand as he gets offered hands to shake from seemingly every direction. It's a small but insistent crowd, and they barely have a glance to spare for the guy in jeans and a t-shirt at Nico's side.

Or, well, formerly at Nico's side, as Marti finds himself successfully pushed out of the way in a matter of seconds.

"Artists have peculiar taste, what can you do?" Marti overhears an elegant lady not-quite-whisper to her friend, as they both shake their heads in Marti's direction.

Marti is not sure if she's referring to his clothes or his gender. He steals the last glass of prosecco from a passing waiter before the lady can get to it just in case.

He takes a sip and glances back at Nico to check how he's holding up – and can't help but smile at the sight.

Someone (most likely Eva) would say thay Nico is _glowing_.

It's... well. Probably the best way to put it.

He's smiling from ear to ear even in the midst of chaos, even as he's trying, and failing, to reply to three people at the same time. Marti can't really hear what he's saying, but the excited light in his eyes, the way he talks with his hands, pointing and tracing shapes mid-air – all of that speaks just as loudly as words.

There is a proud tilt to his chin too, a confidence Marti finds all too endearing because he knows now just how much all of this means to Nico.

They make eye contact briefly over the crowd that separates them.

Nico smiles apologetically, his eyes crinkling at the sides. Marti shakes his head, smiling back.

_Don't worry._

"Later," Nico mouths at him, making the gesture with his finger as well, making Marti laugh.

He doesn't reply: everything that comes to mind feels way too sappy to be said out loud. So he just nods.

He's still smiling to himself when someone waving vigorously in his peripheral vision catches his attention.

Gio and Eva, next to the buffet table.

(Marti can't say he's too surprised.)

He walks over to them, snickering as soon as he recognises Gio's faded black t-shirt.

"'The streets shall be our brushes'," he reads out, leaning against the table and crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Nice."

Gio grins back, like he knew Marti wouldn't disappoint him.

"Says you," Eva chimes in, pointing a canapé at Gio accusingly. "I'm sure Niccolò loves that Gio is walking around insulting his work."

"I'm not insulting his _work._" Gio argues in a too-patient tone that tells Marti they bickered over this all the way here. "I think he's a great artist. It's the way our society restricts the access to art what I'm actually-"

"Marti, have you seen?" Eva cuts him off, rolling her eyes. "Anchovy canapés!"

Marti looks over and grimaces.

"Again?!"

"Luca has eaten sixteen," Gio offers conversationally.

"So he's here already?"

"Yes, Elia too." Eva cranes her neck and takes a look around. "They're still making the rounds, I think. Luca had some _opinions_ to share."

"On?"

"Art and penguins? I'm honestly not sure."

Marti grins.

"Of course." 

"Whatever happened to fashion and penguins?" Gio tilts his chin towards Eva. "You broke his heart when you said you wouldn't produce his line, by the way."

"I still don't have investors. Do you think I can afford penguin clothes?"

"No?" Marti frowns. "What about Ele's guy?"

"Ele said no. However..." Eva's pout turns into a charming smile and Marti's raises an eyebrow at her, unsure.

"What? I'm broke as usual, remember?"

"Oh, I know _you_ are."

It takes Marti a few seconds to put two and two together. Then he snorts and exchanges an amused smile with Gio, who shakes his head fondly.

"You're unbelievable," Marti says.

"Why?" Eva argues pointedly. "I'm just going to ask! Nico dresses nice, you don't _know_ that he's not interested. And anyway, that's none-"

"Martino, sir!"

Marti frowns and turns around, finding himself face to face with a mildly concerned Livio.

"Livio, hi." Marti blinks rapidly, trying to figure out what he could possibly have done now to fuck things up. "Is... everything alright?"

"Yes... well. I don't know, sir. A man has just arrived. He says he needs to speak to Mr Fares immediately, that it's very important. I... I don't know what this is about, sir, but it seems urgent. And I can't find Mr Fares anywhere, there's too many people! I tried calling him, but-"

"Yeah, he has his phone on silent." Marti nods. "I'll find him for you, don't worry."

Livio looks relieved that he doesn't have to abandon his post.

"Thank you, sir," he says, before turning hastily on his heels.

"Sorry guys," Marti tells Eva and Gio with an apologetic grimace. "I have to go find Nico. See you later?"

"Sure." Gio grins knowingly. "_Sir._"

Marti rolls his eyes and bumps Gio's shoulder on purpose as he pushes past him.

*

The hall is packed full with twice the people who were there for the opening.

It's a good sign, obviously. Marti is glad the closing event is shaping up to be a success. But it makes it incredibly hard to locate the artist when needed.

Marti walks fast, craning his neck, saying "excuse me", pushing maybe a bit harder than necessary, trying to get a glimpse of Nico in the crowd.

He sees Elia and Luca at one point, a few meters ahead of him, busy pondering over one of Nico's abstract pieces.

"No, Luchì. You're not following. I'm asking what _you_ see. I mean, looking at it." Elia gestures impatiently at the formless red shapes on the canvas. "What do you think it represents?"

Luca shakes his head, unconvinced.

"Is it about 'representing', though? Like... what do _you_ represent?"

Elia raises an eyebrow at that, like he's not sure if Luca has a point or if he's just saying whatever with no filter as usual.

Marti would have to think about that one too.

... maybe another time.

"Hey guys, have you seen Nico?" he asks instead as soon as he reaches them, but they both shake their heads.

"You let them steal your boyfriend already?" Elia smirks. "How careless of you, Marti."

Marti can only snort, show him the finger, and move on. Though he kind of likes that he's getting used to the sound of it.

His _boyfriend._

There is a considerable crowd gathered towards the far end of the gallery. Marti counts twenty or so people, all fairly quiet, all looking in the same direction, so Marti heads there too.

He hears his voice, deep and enthusiastic, before he sees him.

He has to push past a couple holding hands and a reporter scribbling furiously in his notepad, but he does spot Nico in the end.

At the centre of the semi-circle, talking with his hands as always, his back to a work that Marti remembers well and that makes him smile.

Two dark shapes kissing against a red background.

_Do you want to marry me?_

Marti waves his hand in the air trying to catch Nico's attention.

"-in order to engage, well, necessarily, with a narrative that is- Yes?" Nico speaks to him before fully turning to look. It's fun to watch his eyes go huge in surprise. "Oh, Marti." He smiles, uncertain, taking half a step forward. "Is everything...?"

Marti squeezes past the first row as well and finally reaches Nico.

"A man has just arrived and is asking after you," he whispers in his ear. "Apparently it's urgent. Do you wanna finish here or...?"

Nico frowns.

"Who is it?"

"I haven't seen him. Livio doesn't seem to know him, though."

"Okay." Nico turns back to face his small audience and smiles apologetically. "Sorry, everyone. Something came up that requires my attention. I'll be back soon."

"They'll think I'm taking you away to make out outside," Marti grins, leading the way back towards the entrance.

"Aren't you?" Nico replies, his tone light, but Marti can see he's worried. He walks fast and keeps biting at his lower lip.

"I'm sure it's nothing, Ni." Marti rests his hand on Nico's arm comfortingly. "Just someone who thinks their opinion is worth more than everybody else's."

"I know, I know. It's just..." Nico sighs. "I can't believe I'm letting this thing ruin tonight. I even told my therapist at midday- What if my brain decides to fuck everything up last minute?"

"Hey, hey. Ni, listen to me. Nothing is ruined!" Marti stops him gently with a hand on his chest. "We'll deal with this now and everything will go on as smoothly as before."

Nico smiles, still nervous but also strangely shy.

"We?"

Marti smiles back.

"Of course. We."

"MR FARES!"

Both Marti and Nico jump at Livio's sudden appearance. He looks uncharacteristically disheveled, his tie crooked, panting hard.

"MR FARES! I'm sorry! I tried telling him he had to wait, that you were coming, but he didn't believe me. He insisted he had to speak with you immediately and I... There he is. I'm sorry!"

"Don't worry, Livio, it's not-" Nico interrupts himself as the man in question makes his way towards them in long strides. He's an elderly man, his brow furrowed, his steps purposeful and decisive, like he's not used to being told what to do.

There is something familiar about him Marti can't quite place.

It's only when he looks up at Marti and says, in a gruff tone: "Rametta! You're here too. Excellent," that Marti recognises him.

The old guy from the bookshop meeting. The one Marti argued with (well, he almost shouted at, actually) about contemporary art.

Marti glances at Nico, raising an eyebrow, but Nico looks just as baffled.

"Good evening," Nico offers politely. It ends up sounding like a question.

"Fares," the man says, instead of replying. "You're a hard man to find."

"I wouldn't say that."

"Well, I do," the man insists. "I came here on Monday to look at the paintings and you weren't here."

"Well... I'm not here _constantly_," Nico concedes. "But my work is – that's the important thing."

"Still, a captain doesn't abandon his ship."

Marti snorts, because what does that even mean, and the man turns to look at him, frowning deep.

"Rametta, that blog of yours. I've read it."

"It's an _online magazine_," Marti replies through gritted teeth.

"Same difference. It's on the internet, isn't it?"

"Last time I checked."

The man squints dangerously.

"I like you better when you write, Rametta. Occasionally, you even make decent points. In person you come off as incredibly grating."

Marti scoffs, and is about to reply in a way that will _definitely_ come off as incredibly grating, but Nico puts a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

"So you came here on Monday... because Marti suggested it in his article?" He smiles, obviously pleased. "And what did you think of the exhibition, Mr...?"

"Campanini." The man nods once. "That's what I would have liked to talk to you about, Fares. If only you had been here." He glares, then sighs deeply. "I suppose I have been somewhat... unfair, in my previous judgement. You have talent, Fares. Your use of colour is intriguing. I suppose I have been generalising when talking about contemporary artists before."

Now.

Marti _could_ shut up and take the half-apology for what it is, but... well. No, he can't, actually.

"Wait, so Nico is not a fraud now, but everyone else still is?"

Campanini rolls his eyes.

"I've only been to this one exhibition so far, haven't I?"

Nico smiles and squeezes Marti shoulder gently.

_Be nice. He's trying._

Marti huffs, but lets it go.

"If you're interested in seeing more, I have a few suggestions for you, Mr Campanini," Nico says. "You can leave your contact information to Livio and I'll be in touch."

"That's... very kind of you. Thank you, I will." Campanini hesitates, then offers his hand for Nico to shake. "Fares," he says seriously. "Congratulations on your exhibition."

Then turns to look at Marti and offers him his hand too. Marti waits a couple of seconds before taking it.

"Rametta."

"Mh?"

"Thank you for your articles. We should talk about Cézanne sometime."

Marti tries not to smile at that, but ends up giving up half-way though.

"Sure."

Campanini only nods in reply. Marti watches him turn on his heels and walk away, his gait just as decisive and self-assured as before.

Marti turns to Nico, who is looking back at him, an eyebrow raised. But the light in his eyes is soft and almost proud.

"I can't believe you single-handedly saved my reputation," he says, and Marti scoffs.

"Well, after trying to destroy it it was the least I could do," Marti jokes.

"We should toast to it!" Nico looks around and gestures to a waiter. "Sorry, can I...? Thank you." Nico grabs two flutes of prosecco, handing one to Marti. "To your articles saving my exhibition and the whole of contemporary art."

Marti rolls his eyes fondly.

"Idiot. Like you needed my help." Marti snorts. "Like _art_ needed my help."

Nico raises his glass to him, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"For art's sake?"

Marti punches his shoulder but clinks his glass with Nico's anyway.

A smile. A knowing look.

"For art's sake."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to do the tearful goodbye thing because I hate those and also I'm not going anywhere.
> 
> Just... thank you so much for all the love and encouragement. There are no words for how much that helped <3 Hope you enjoyed the last chapter and... see you soon 😉


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